.ON  ess 

•1HUTTBN 


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-Baroness  toon  f)tttten. 


VIOLETT.     Crown  8vo,  $1.50. 

OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES.     J2mo,  $1.25. 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK. 


YIOLETT 
A  CHRONICLE 


V  I  O   L  E  T  T 


A  CHRONICLE 


BY 


BARONESS  VON  HUTTEN 

AUTHOR  or  "Qua  LADY  or  THE  BEECHES,"  ETC. 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

<Cbe  flibersiDc  prcstf,  Cambribge 
1904 


COPYRIGHT    1904   BY   BETTINA  VON    HUTTEN 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


Published  February  1904 


STACK 

ANNEX 


BAD-KBEUZNACH,  SEPTEMBER  1,  1903 


Whosoever  resisteth  temptation,  he  shall 
receive  the  crown  of  life. 

ST.  JAMES. 


PART  I 


YIOLETT 


DAWN.  —  A  splendid  apricot  glow  spreading  like 
a  smile  over  the  face  of  the  east,  edging  the  small 
waves  with  gold,  flooding  their  hollows  with  rich 
shadow. 

A  strong  wind  had  blown  all  night,  to  die  slowly 
as  the  stars  faded,  and  now  night  had  gone,  and 
day  was  come. 

At  the  edge  of  the  little  rock-bound  garden  east 
of  the  lighthouse  stood  an  old  woman,  a  woolen 
shawl  over  her  head,  gazing  seaward.  Under  the 
fringe  of  the  shawl  crisp  red  curls,  slightly  touched 
with  gray,  fluttered  in  the  damp  breeze ;  her  face, 
fretted  with  a  fine  network  of  wrinkles,  was  drawn 
into  haggard  lines  of  pain,  her  eyes  dark  with  an 
guish. 

While  the  light  grew  and  strengthened,  waking 
the  birds  in  the  stunted  trees,  she  stood  motionless, 
her  gaunt  figure  rigid,  as  if  she  awaited  something. 

Then,  as  the  sun  rose,  fading  the  glow  with  its 
splendor,  she  threw  up  her  arms  in  a  gesture  of 


2  VIOLETT 

despair,  and  falling  on  the  rough  grass,  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands. 

It  was  happening  then,  —  at  that  moment ;  now 
they  had  hidden  his  face;  now  the  clergyman  had 
said  the  last  words ;  now  — 

A  deep  groan  broke  the  silence,  but  the  woman 
did  not  move. 

And  the  sun  rose,  and  the  greatest  beauty  of  the 
twenty-four  hours  lay  ready  for  those  who  did  not 
sleep. 

On  the  rocks  below  the  garden  the  sea  was  sing 
ing  its  morning  hymn;  birds  twittered;  the  morn 
ing-glories  stirred  in  their  sleep;  a  cock  crew. 

When  at  last  the  old  woman  rose,  her  haggard 
face  was  wet,  and  the  merciful  tears  smoothing  it 
into  gentler  lines. 

With  a  last  look  at  the  sun,  magnificent  clock 
of  the  simple,  she  turned  and  went  slowly  across 
the  silvery  grass  to  the  house  at  the  foot  of  the 
great  tower,  and  pushing  open  the  door,  passed  in. 
The  fire  on  the  hearth  was  lighted,  and  from  the 
curved  beak  of  the  bright  copper  kettle  rose  a 
plume  of  steam.  The  old  woman  hung  her  shawl 
on  a  nail  by  the  window,  smoothed  her  ruffled  hair, 
and  went  on  into  the  next  room. 

Here  in  a  small  bed  a  boy  lay  asleep,  his  head 
thrown  back,  his  red  lips  slightly  parted.  The 
loose  collar  of  his  shirt  showed  the  whiteness  of 


VIOLETT  3 

his  skin  below  the  sun  line,  but  the  smooth  brow 
was  brown  to  the  roots  of  the  hair. 

The  old  woman  stood  looking  at  him  for  several 
minutes,  and  then,  touching  his  cheek  gently,  she 
waked  him. 

"Vi'lett!  Vi'lett,  my  dearie.  It  is  time  to  get 
up!" 

He  was  awake  at  once,  staring  vacantly  at  her 
with  big  gray  eyes  that  were  almost  silvery,  in  con 
trast  to  his  brown  face.  Then  suddenly  his  eyes 
darkened  with  terror,  and  he  caught  at  her  hands. 
"Agnes,  Agnes,"  he  stammered,  "Is  it  true?" 

"It  is  true,  my  dearie,"  she  returned  solemnly, 
"  and  we  must  bear  it.  It  —  it  is  over  now,  God 
be  praised,  and  his  poor  soul  at  rest." 

The  child  rose  and  dressed  himself  without 
speaking  again.  The  rosy  flush  sleep  had  brought 
to  his  cheeks  faded  slowly,  but  his  strange  light 
eyes  were  brave,  and  his  lips  drawn  into  a  stern 
line. 

When  he  went  into  the  kitchen,  old  Agnes  stood 
at  the  window  with  her  husband,  whose  hand  rested 
on  her  shoulder.  Violett  watched  them  for  a  mo 
ment,  a  sudden  new  loneliness  closing  his  throat. 
They  had  each  other,  and  he  had  no  one.  Alice 
was  gone  —  and  his  father  — 

The  old  people  turned,  and  both  of  them  kissed 
him.  Michael  was  crying,  and  his  tears  were  warm 


4  VIOLETT 

on  the  boy's  cheek,  as  the  three  sat  down  to  their 
homely  breakfast. 

No  one  spoke  until  the  clock  in  the  corner 
struck,  startling  them  all,  as  if  the  silence,  a  tan 
gible  thing,  had  suddenly  cracked. 

Then  Michael  said  slowly,  stirring  his  coffee, 
and  not  looking  up,  "Vi'lett  —  it 's  over  now." 

"I  know.    He  's  —  dead."   Agnes  nodded. 

"Dead.  And  the  dead  are  always  to  be  thought 
kindly  of.  He  was  your  father,  and  he  never  gave 
you  a  hard  word.  He  was  ever  ready  to  do  a  kind 
deed;  he  was  a  fine  lightkeeper,  —  them's  the 
things  we  are  going  to  remember." 

Michael  took  her  hand  in  his.  "Yes,  Agnes, 
you  be  right,  old  woman.  Only  God  is  great 
enough  to  remember  —  the  other  things  —  wi'out 
being  unjust." 

The  child  looked  at  them,  the  early  light  falling 
into  his  luminous  eyes,  the  lines  of  his  mouth  re 
laxing  piteously. 

"Agnes,  did  it  hurt  him?"  he  cried  suddenly, 
and  before  they  could  answer,  he  had  rushed  from 
the  house.  It  is  better  to  suffer  under  God's  sky 
than  under  any  man's  roof. 

The  little  gate  at  the  end  of  the  garden  was 
open,  and  without  pausing,  the  boy  passed  through 
it  and  clambered  down  the  rough  path  to  the  small 
stretch  of  shingle  at  its  foot. 


II 

THAT  afternoon  a  row-boat  pushed  off  from  the 
fishing  village  nearly  opposite  the  island,  and 
skimmed  quickly  over  the  brilliant  water  towards 
the  landing-place  south  of  the  light.  The  two  men 
in  the  boat,  a  barefooted  fisherman  and  a  well- 
dressed,  provincial -looking  man  of  fifty,  both  sighed 
from  time  to  time,  and  glanced  at  each  other  with 
sympathetic  sadness. 

"I  don't  envy  you,  Mr.  Barton,"  remarked 
Bob  Venn  at  length,  as  he  swept  his  little  craft 
skillfully  between  two  rocks  that  lay  concealed 
but  for  the  lazy  movement  of  the  water  about 
them. 

"  You  are  right,  Bob.  It  is  a  most  painful  busi 
ness.  Poor  boy,  I  pity  him  with  all  my  heart." 

"Ay!  Just  think  of  it,  the  little  lass  had  lived 
there  all  her  life,  —  they  had  been  brought  up  to 
gether.  And  —  it  was  him  that  found  her  —  dead 
—  you  know." 

Barton  shook  his  head.  "And  who  told  him  — 
about  his  father,  I  mean?  " 

"Old  Agnes.  She  has  lived  at  the  island  ever 
since  Godfrey  himself  was  a  child.  She  —  she 
loved  him.  God  help  her." 

They  had  reached  the  landing-place,  a  stoutly 


6  VIOLETT 

built  platform  wedged  in  between  two  rocks,  and 
drawing  in  his  oars,  Venn  fastened  his  boat. 

Barton  got  out  and  went  slowly  up  the  steps, 
leaning  on  the  hand-rail  built  for  safety  in  bad 
weather. 

Maule  Island  was  said  by  the  fisher-folk  to  be 
an  island  at  high  tide,  a  peninsula  at  low.  Off  to 
his  left,  Venn  could  see  the  narrow  line  of  foam 
that  betrayed  the  jagged  reef  joining  the  island  to 
the  mainland. 

Godfrey  Maule  had,  the  fisherman  remembered, 
more  than  once  run  over  the  slippery,  spiked  rocks. 
He  had  always  enjoyed  showing  off,  and  the  pos 
sible  admiration  of  possible  onlookers  quite  out 
weighed  in  his  mind  the  certain  danger  he  incurred. 

He  had  been  a  strange  man,  vain  and  audacious, 
afraid  of  nothing  —  Venn  broke  off  with  a  start ; 
it  was  a  ghastly  subject  for  thought. 

As  he  walked  up  and  down  the  little  platform, 
he  heard  the  sound  of  footsteps,  and  turning,  saw, 
instead  of  Barton,  Violett  approaching. 

"Oh,  Bob,"  the  boy  began  at  once,  "I  am  so 
glad  to  see  you !  They  sent  me  away  —  Mr.  Bar 
ton,  I  mean  —  so  I  came  down  here  "  — 

Bob  Venn  blushed  under  his  sunburn,  and  held 
out  his  hand,  as  he  would  have  done  to  a  man. 

"I  'm  glad  to  see  you,  too,"  he  said.  "  Sit  down 
here  in  the  shade.  It 's  warm  to-day." 


VIOLETT  7 

Violett  sat  down.  He  was  a  small,  lightly  built 
child,  with  narrow  feet  and  curiously  mobile  hands, 
which  looked  nervous,  and  yet  had  a  trick  of  lying 
perfectly  quiet  on  his  knees  for  long  minutes  at 
a  time.  Venn  glanced  at  them  now.  They  were 
clenched  tight. 

"Vi'lett  —  don't  you  be  bothering  about  what 
Mr.  Barton  said." 

"I  'm  not  bothering.    It 's  only  about  money." 

"I  know.    You  are  rich  —  they  say  " 

The  boy  shook  his  head.  "Agnes  says  I  must  n't 
ever  touch  it,  Bob,  and  I  won't." 

Venn  was  silent,  and  he  went  on  hurriedly,  "  It 
was — Alice's,  Bob, — that 's  why  I  mustn't  touch 
it.  Agues  said  so,  and  then —  she  scolded  Mr.  Bar 
ton."  A  quick  smile  touched  his  lips. 

Venn  hesitated.  "Look  here,  Vi'lett,  Mr.  Bar 
ton  's  a  gentleman,  and  we  be  only  poor  folks,  but 
—  I  think  Agnes  is  right.  I  wouldn't  touch  it 
either  if  I  were  you." 

"I  won't." 

There  was  a  short  pause,  and  then  without  any 
explanation,  the  boy  began  to  undress,  and  when 
he  was  quite  naked,  slipped  over  the  edge  of  the 
platform  into  the  green  water. 

"You  be  a  fish!"  exclaimed  Venn,  laughing. 
"More  in  the  water  than  out,  you  live,  don't  you?  " 

"Yes."   Violett's  small  dark  face  lay  on  the  sur- 


8  VIOLETT 

face,  with  closed  eyes.  "Oh,  Bob,  the  green  is  so 
soft  and  warm." 

"The  green!  That's  an  idea.  The  color  don't 
have  any  feel." 

"Oh,  yes,  it  does.  And,"  his  gray  eyes  opened 
wide  as  he  spoke,  "colors  all  have  sounds,  too." 

Venn  laughed  again.  "Here  conies  Mr.  Bar 
ton."  Violett  turned  over  and  swam  away  with 
out  speaking,  and  Venn,  still  smiling,  looked  up 
the  path  expecting  to  see  Barton.  He  was  again 
disappointed.  This  time  it  was  old  Michael,  hurry 
ing  down  the  steps  at  a  breakneck  speed,  holding 
in  his  hand  something  that  flashed  blindingly  in 
the  westering  sun. 

"Beer,  Bob  Venn!"  the  old  man  cried,  gayly. 
"Cold  beer!" 

Venn  smiled  approvingly  at  the  bottle  and 
glasses,  and  laying  his  big  hand  on  Corey's  shoul 
der,  gave  him  a  mighty  shake.  "I  'm  not  denying 
thirst,  Michael,"  he  said,  "Thirst's  like  a  pretty 
woman,  a  torment  and  a  trial,  but  who  would  be 
wi'out  her?  " 

The  two  men  sat  down,  and  drank  the  beer. 
"Vi'lett's  clothes,"  commented  Michael,  glancing 
at  the  little  heap  of  worn  brown  velveteen.  "That 
boy  is  half  mermaid,  I  'm  thinking." 

"Yes.  We  thought  you  was  Barton,  and  he 
cleared  out.  Poor  lad !  " 


VIOLETT  9 

Corey  sighed  and  licked  the  last  frothy  drop 
from  the  bottle.  "Yes.  It's  been  a  bad  summer 
for  us  here." 

"  Barton  told  me  that  Vi'lett  found  the  child.  Is 
that  true?" 

Michael  nodded,  his  wrinkled  old  face  quiver 
ing.  "Yes.  Oh,  what  a  fool  he  was,  what  a  fool!  " 

"Hush,  Michael,  it  ain't  right  to  call  a  dead 
man  a  fool." 

"Death  can't  make  a  wise  man  of  a  fool,  nor  a 
good  man  of  a  rogue,  Bob  Venn.  And  a  fool  he 
was  to  dream  that  good  could  ever  come  of  —  what 
he  did.  Praise  God,  my  old  woman  and  me  we 
were  blinded.  Blinded  by  habit  —  there  's  nothing 
like  it.  I  was  'mazed  when  they  fetched  him,  but 
when  they  ixamined  me,  I  was  dumb  as  a  fish. 
Didn't  know  anything;  hadn't  noticed  anything; 
had  n't  seen  'im  give  t'  poor  lass  the  sugar,  —  and 
my  old  woman  neither." 

"That  was  a  good  thing." 

"  Ay.  For  look  'ee,  Bob  Venn,  it 's  a  blessed 
gift  of  the  Lord,  stupidity  like  mine.  I  do  be  the 
stupidest  old  man  in  England." 

"Happen  so  stupid  they  won't  let  'ee  keep  the 
light?" 

Corey  started.  "No,  no,  that 's  all  right.  I  sent 
in  my  apply  as  soon  as  they  'd  taken  'im  away, 
and  I  've  got  all  the  papers  signed  in  my  box." 


10  VIOLETT 

"I  'm  glad  of  that,  Michael.  Well,  here  comes 
Mr.  Barton,  and  thank  you  kindly." 

As  the  attorney  came  down  the  steps  he  stopped 
the  old  man.  "Your  wife  is  a  fool,  Corey,"  he 
said  sharply. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Barton,  but  I 'm  a  bigger.  I  be 
surely  the  biggest  fool  in  all  England,  God  bless 
her." 

"The  money  belongs  to  the  boy.  Why  should 
he  not  use  it?" 

Michael  smiled  at  him.  "  She  decides  all  them 
things,  Mr.  Barton.  Honored  by  your  visit." 

He  stood  watching  the  boat  for  a  few  minutes 
and  then  went  back  to  the  house.  As  he  passed 
around  the  tower  into  the  garden,  Violett  came  up 
from  the  little  beach,  and  walked  tranquilly  across 
the  grass  towards  him,  perfectly  naked. 

"Where  's  your  clothes, Vi'lett?  Oh,  yes,  down 
at  the  landing." 

But  when  the  old  man  had  entered  the  house, 
the  boy,  after  hesitating  for  a  moment,  turned  and 
went  again  down  to  the  beach.  Clothes  were  a 
very  small  matter  to  him;  and  to-day,  his  heart 
aching,  his  head  throbbing  with  painful  thought, 
his  one  idea  was  to  be  close  to  if  not  in  the  water 
that  he  loved. 

He  lay  down  in  the  warm  dry  sand,  and  tried  to 
forget  Barton's  kindly  meant  explanations  and 


VIOLETT  11 

expressions  of  sympathy,  for  they  hurt  him.  Sud 
denly  he  remembered  that  it  was  his  birthday.  He 
was  nine  ! 

It  was  restful  there  in  the  little  cove;  the 
shadow  of  the  island  stretched  out  over  the  water 
before  him;  sea-birds  whirled  against  the  blue 
sky;  a  fishing-boat  crawled  lazily  across  the  ho 
rizon. 

Soon  it  would  be  night,  and  Michael  would 
mount  the  stairs  and  light  the  great  lamps ;  then 
they  would  have  supper,  — apple-tarts,  perhaps,  as 
it  was  his  birthday. 

When  he  was  a  man,  he,  too,  would  be  light- 
keeper  ;  he  would  be  the  seventh  Maule  to  fill  the 
office;  his  father  had  been  proud  of  his  descent; 
his  father  would  laugh  at  supper,  and  tell  the 
story  of  the  parson's  donkey  — 

Then  suddenly  the  remembrance  of  his  misery 
came  over  him,  waking  him  from  his  drowsy 
dreaming,  and  bursting  into  tears  he  buried  his 
face  in  his  sandy  arms.  Michael  found  him  fast 
asleep  an  hour  later,  and  carried  him  up  to  the 
house. 

Agnes  rubbed  the  sand  from  his  little  bare  body 
and  put  him  tenderly  into  his  bed.  "He  giveth 
his  beloved  sleep,"  the  old  woman  said,  as  she 
tucked  him  in. 


Ill 

FOUR  weeks  passed,  and  September  had  come. 
Four  weeks  of  quiet,  broken  only  by  the  visit  of  a 
government  inspector  who  had  toiled  up  the  stairs 
and  examined  with  minute  care  everything  con 
nected  with  the  light.  Violett  followed,  full  of  in 
terest,  and  helped  once  or  twice,  with  a  radiant 
smile  on  his  brown  little  face  that  at  last  attracted 
the  great  man's  attention. 

"And  what  is  your  name,  my  little  man?"  he 
asked,  as  though  there  had  been  in  question  many 
other  names. 

"Violett  Maule." 

The  inspector  started.  "Maule?  Dear  me!  Is 
he  the  son? —  I  mean  I  had  forgotten  that  this 
was  the  place." 

Michael  nodded  gloomily.  "  Yes,  he  's  the  son. 
Vi'lett,  run  down  and  see  what  time  it  is." 

Violett  obeyed  slowly,  all  the  spring  gone  out 
of  his  gait.  He  had  forgotten  for  a  minute,  and 
now  he  remembered.  Agnes  let  him  bake  a  cake 
for  supper,  and  in  the  excitement  of  watching  it 
brown  he  forgot  again. 

The  first  of  September  Michael  took  down  the 
great  market-basket  from  its  shelf  near  the  clock, 
and  made  his  preparations  for  his  monthly  for- 


VIOLETT  13 

aging  expedition  to  St.  Kilian's.  Violett  fetched 
his  hat  from  the  drawer  where  it  lay  between 
the  few  occasions  when  he  wore  it,  and  going  to 
the  pump  outside,  washed  his  face  and  hands. 

When  Michael  and  Agnes  had  finished  their 
conference,  and  the  old  man  had  tied  in  a  corner  of 
his  red  handkerchief  the  money  to  be  spent,  Violett 
took  up  the  basket.  "I'm  ready,"  he  said  con 
tentedly. 

The  two  old  people  started.  "Bide  here  with 
me,  won't  'ee,  dear?"  Agnes  asked  him  gently. 

"Why,  Agnes?   I  always  go." 

Michael  pondered  for  a  moment,  and  then  said 
gayly,  "Off  with  'ee,  then,  and  fetch  the  oars. 
Hast  thy  hat?" 

As  the  child  scampered  away,  he  added,  "  Soon 
as  well  as  late,  Agnes.  An'  he  'd  best  get  used  to 
it  while  he  's  young." 

"No  one  will  be  unkind  to  the  poor  lad,  Mi 
chael!  "  she  cried,  a  flush  on  her  hollow  cheeks. 

"Nay,  nay,  — not  so  long  's  he  doesn't  come  in 
their  way.  That 's  when  they  '11  throw  't  up  to 
'im,  old  wumman." 

She,  with  her  womanly  instinct,  would  rather 
have  hid  the  child  away  from  all  the  world,  have 
hedged  him  in  with  her  love,  —  the  flowers  to  him, 
the  thorns  to  the  rest  of  the  world,  — but  she  knew 
that  Michael  was  right,  and  made  no  protest. 


14  VIOLETT 

Sitting  in  the  stern  of  the  snug,  water-tight  lit 
tle  boat  and  bounding  landwards  over  the  glancing 
water  was  a  delight  to  the  boy,  and  he  laughed 
again  and  again. 

Michael  was  the  cleverest  of  story-tellers,  and 
the  tales  of  his  own  youth  were  nothing  less  than 
amazing.  Violett  believed  them  all. 

"And  when  you  found  the  cave,  what  did  you 
do,  Michael?  How  many  kegs  of  rum  were 
there?" 

"Hundreds,  dear.  Piled  up  regular  to  the  top 
of  the  cave." 

"And  did  the  smugglers  come?" 

"  Come  !  I  should  think  they  did  come !  Why, 
there  was  I,  one  to  six.  Six  big  chaps  with  black 
beards." 

"Oh,  oh  I"  Violett  wriggled  with  delight. 
"What  did  you  do,  Michael?  I'd  have  kiUed 
'email!" 

The  old  man  started,  and  his  wrinkled  face 
gave  a  nervous  twitch.  "Don't  'ee  say  that  now, 
Vi'lett.  'T  ain't  seemly  "  - 

"  But  I  would.  I  'd  ha'  taken  my  sword  and  — 
and  "  —  Then  his  voice  fell  suddenly  and  broke 
into  a  silent  sob.  He  had  again  remembered. 

St.  Kilian's  is  just  out  of  sight  of  Maule's  Is 
land,  hidden  deep  within  two  curved  arms  of  land 
that  almost  meet. 


VIOLETT  15 

The  village  is  a  rambling,  irregular  collection 
of  poor  houses,  most  of  them  fishermen's  dwell 
ings,  and  has  besides  its  old  church,  two  shops  and 
a  fish-market  as  attractions. 

Michael,  used  to  the  free  air  of  the  island,  dis 
liked  the  fishy,  close  atmosphere  of  the  narrow 
streets,  but  to  Violett  the  little  town  was  full  of 
charm.  The  houses,  white  or  brown,  stood  out 
from  the  sea  against  the  splendid  green  of  the 
hills  behind  it,  and  the  rocks,  covered  with  sea 
weed  and  lichen,  were  of  beautiful  soft  colors  that 
he  loved  but  could  not  name. 

Then  there  were  flowers  in  some  of  the  gardens, 
and  often  he  returned  home  with  an  armful  of  bril 
liant  blossoms  won  by  the  smile  in  his  eyes  as  he 
peered  through  the  palings  at  them. 

Children,  too,  played  about  the  shore  and  near 
the  fish-market,  and  he  loved  to  watch  them  and 
enter  into  shy  conversation  with  them. 

To-day,  when  Michael  had  tied  the  boat,  the 
two  went  up  the  steep,  cobble-stoned  street  to  the 
shop  where  most  of  the  purchases  were  to  be  made. 
It  was  a  very  warm  afternoon,  and  the  countless 
fish  scales  that  lay  over  everything  shone  like  tiny 
jewels  in  the  sun. 

In  a  garden  a  woman  stood  with  her  baby  in 
her  arms,  talking  to  a  neighbor  outside  the  pal 
ings.  "And  her  wi'  a  silk  dress!"  she  was  say- 


16  VIOLETT 

ing,  "the  lazy" —  She  broke  off,  nudging  her 
friend,  and  the  two  women  turned  and  looked  at 
the  old  man  and  the  child  who  were  approach 
ing. 

"It 's  him,  Susan,  sure  as  sure!  " 

"Good-day  to  you,  Susan  Bennett,"  said  Mi 
chael  politely.  "Fine  hot  weather." 

The  woman  tossed  her  head.  "You  needn't 
talk  to  me,  Michael  Corey!"  she  cried  shrilly. 
"You  be  a  nice  old  man  to  stay  there  after  what 's 
past!  Shame  to 'ee !" 

Michael  caught  Violett's  hand  and  dragged  him 
away.  "Don't  'ee  mind,  dearie,"  he  murmured, 
"don't  'ee  heed.  You  's  God's  little  boy,  mind 
that." 

The  shopkeeper  gave  Violett  a  sweet  biscuit  and 
sent  him  outside,  in  order  to  have  free  speech 
while  the  purchases  were  being  made. 

Violett  ate  his  biscuit,  but  he  understood,  and 
his  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"Won't  they  ever  forget  it,  Michael?"  he 
asked  when  the  old  man  joined  him,  "It's  such 
a  long  time  ago."  It  was  just  a  month. 

At  the  other  shop  no  one  was  about  but  a 
strange  youth  who,  with  a  comforting  lack  of  curi 
osity,  sold  them  two  pounds  of  gray  yarn,  and  told 
Violett  that  he  looked  like  his,  the  youth's,  little 
brother  in  Cornwall. 


VIOLETT  17 

Violett  was  much  interested  in  the  little  boy  in 
Cornwall,  and  asked  several  questions  about  him. 
As  he  and  Michael,  the  heavy  basket  between 
them,  went  down  the  slippery  street,  a  woman  in 
one  of  the  cottages  asked  them  to  come  in  and 
rest.  She  was  a  kind  woman,  and  after  a  minute's 
reflection  Michael  sent  Violett  in,  while  he  fetched 
a  fish-net  that  he  had  left  some  time  since  to  be 
mended.  The  woman,  who  was  busy  ironing,  in 
company  with  two  others,  set  the  basket  on  the 
table,  and  giving  Violett  a  chair,  offered  him  a  cup 
of  tea,  which  he  gladly  accepted. 

"Well,  an'  how  be  you  now?  "  she  asked,  peer 
ing  curiously  at  him  with  small  bright  eyes.  "An 
other  spoonful  of  sugar?  Yes,  do  'ee.  An'  how 
be  you,  did  you  say  ?  " 

"I'm  very  well,  thank  you,"  he  returned  po 
litely.  "There  is  a  little  boy  named  Stephen  in 
Cornwall  that  looks  like  me.  I  wish  he  'd  come 
here." 

"Did  ye  ever,  Jennie?  In  Cornwall!  Well,  to 
be  sure.  How  's  old  Agnes?" 

"Very  well,  thank  you." 

The  fixed  gaze  of  the  three  women  began  to 
trouble  him ;  he  wished  Michael  would  come. 

One  of  the  women  had  unfastened  the  collar  of 
her  gown,  and  he  could  see  a  big  brown  mole  on 
the  whiteness  of  her  neck. 


18  VIOLETT 

"We  was  all  so  sorry  for  your  trouble,"  his 
hostess  began,  after  a  pause  and  a  look  at  her 
friends.  "Was  n't  us,  Luce?  " 

Luce  nodded.  "Yes.  Awful  bad  to  lose  a  fey- 
ther,  let  alone  that  away." 

A  feeling  of  sickness  overcame  Violett,  and  he 
set  his  half -empty  cup  on  the  table. 

Jennie  took  up  her  iron  and  began  to  pass  it 
slowly  over  a  long  brown  woolen  stocking.  "Don't, 
Luce,"  she  said  in  an  undertone. 

"Don't  what,  Jennie  West?  No  one's  a-blam- 
ing  the  child.  He  can't  help  his  father  's  being 
hung,  can  'ee,  dearie?" 

Violett  rose.  "I — I  must  go  now,"  he  said 
breathlessly.  "I —  wish  you  would  n't  talk  about 
it." 

His  voice  broke,  and  Jennie,  leaving  her  iron 
where  it  stood,  took  him  up  in  her  strong  arms 
and  carried  him  into  the  sunny,  flowery  garden. 

"Never  mind,  little  lad.  Her 's  only  a  fool, 
Luce  is.  Look  at  they  sweet  red  roses.  Want 
one?"  She  picked  several  and  folded  them  into 
the  child's  nerveless  fingers.  "An'  there  's  a  but 
terfly  —  ay,  and  a  beauty.  When  your  boy  from 
Cornwall  comes  you  'n'  him  '11  catch  butterflies. 
I  '11  make  'ee  a  net,  like  the  rector's  little  gal 
has." 

The   good   creature  went   on,   comforting   him 


VIOLETT  19 

more  by  the  sound  of  her  kind  voice  than  by  her 
words,  and  in  a  few  minutes  Luce  Kent  came  out, 
a  big  piece  of  apple-tart  in  her  hand,  which  she 
gave  him,  and  which  was  delicious. 

Michael  found  the  three  in  the  garden,  and  as 
he  took  leave  of  Mrs.  Kent  thanked  her  for  her 
kindness  to  the  boy. 

All  the  way  home  Violett  romanced  aloud  about 
that  little  boy  in  Cornwall.  He  must  come  to  St. 
Kilian's;  he  must  come  to  the  island  and  play  all 
day  with  Violett.  Michael  must  make  a  little  boat 
for  Stephen,  like  Violett's  Good  Hope.  It  would 
be  so  delightful  when  people  could  not  tell  the  two 
boys  apart.  And  when  they  reached  home,  Agnes 
had  to  be  told  all  over  again,  and  was  as  interested 
as  any  one  could  possibly  wish  in  the  boy  in  Corn 
wall. 


IV 

ALL  good  story-tellers  know  the  inspiration  of  a 
wood  fire,  while  winter  howls  at  doors  and  win 
dows,  and  darkness  is  blown  about  in  gusts  by  a 
high  wind. 

The  winter  following  Godfrey  Maule's  hanging 
was  an  unusually  severe  one,  and  in  looking  back 
on  it  Violett  saw  himself  often  sitting  on  a  low 
stool  by  the  fire,  Agnes  knitting  at  his  right,  and 
to  the  left  Michael,  his  pipe  in  hand,  his  face  half 
astonished  at  his  own  inventive  faculty. 

All  stories  gain  by  being  told  in  the  first  per 
son,  and  many  old  tales,  known  to  most  people  as 
adventures  of  various  great  men  of  history,  were 
long  believed  by  Violett  to  have  happened  to 
Michael  Corey  in  the  days  described  by  him  as 
"when  I  was  young."  And  the  wind  howled, 
waves  boomed  against  the  rocks,  the  fire  stirred 
cosily,  Agnes's  swift  needles  made  a  pleasant 
clicking  noise,  and  Violett  sat  big-eyed  and  lis 
tened. 

Some  of  the  stories  referred  to  Michael's  early 
days  at  the  island,  when  he  was  assistant  light- 
keeper,  but  no  mention  of  Violett 's  father  was  ever 
made.  Poor  little  dead  Alice,  Violett's  cousin,  was 
also  banished  from  the  tales,  as  though  she  had 


VIOLETT  21 

never  lived.  Once  when  Michael  paused  for  a 
minute  to  light  his  neglected  pipe,  Violett  said, 
"But,  Michael,  Alice  was  there,  don't  you  remem 
ber?" 

"Yes,  dearie,"  returned  Agnes  quickly,  who 
spoke  latterly  with  great  pains,  that  Violett  might 
not  forget  his  "proper  English."  "Alice  was 
there,  asleep  in  her  bed.  She  loved  you,  and  you 
were  very  good  to  her  always." 

Michael  jerked  his  match  into  the  fire  and 
began  to  speak,  when  Violett  interrupted  him: 
"Agnes,  what  was  the  matter  with  Alice?  You 
know  what  I  mean." 

The  two  old  people  exchanged  a  glance,  and  then 
Agnes  said  quietly,  "Alice  was  not  quite  like 
other  folks,  dear.  Her  mind  stayed  little  while 
she  growed." 

"Oh!  Her  mind  stayed  little  while  she  growed. 
Then"  —  the  child  broke  off,  and  then,  turning, 
laid  his  head  on  the  old  woman's  knees.  "Then  — • 
perhaps  it  was  n't  so  bad.  I  mean  —  father  "  — 

"Don't  'ee  think  of  that,  my  lamb.  God  has 
judged  your  feyther  ;  there  's  no  call  to  think  about 
it.  Go  on,  Michael."  And  Michael  went  on. 

Spring  came  —  beautiful  as  it  is  only  by  the  sea 
—  and  summer. 

Violett 's  life  did  not  change,   except  that  he 


22  VIOLETT 

learned  to  row,  and  used  to  help  Michael  when 
they  went  to  St.  Kilian's. 

The  little  boy  from  Cornwall  never  came,  but 
Violett  did  not  forget  him,  and  down  on  the  little 
rock -bound  beach  used  to  play  with  him,  talking 
to  and  for  him,  and  behaving  with  the  greatest 
courtesy  to  his  guest. 

Once  Bob  Venn  took  Violett  on  a  fishing  expe 
dition,  and  the  boy  sat  all  night  watching  the  sea 
and  the  stars.  At  midnight  Venn  gave  him  some 
cold  coffee  and  a  bit  of  bread  and  bacon,  half  of 
which  was  eaten  by  the  boy  from  Cornwall,  and 
greatly  enjoyed  by  him,  as  it  appeared  there  was 
no  bacon  in  that  mysterious  country. 

The  bears,  great  and  small,  the  north  star,  and 
some  few  other  luminaries  were  politely  pointed  out 
to  the  boy,  who  was  naturally  much  interested  in 
such  phenomena,  and  who  in  return  gave  a  very 
comprehensive  account  of  his  father's  farm,  on 
which  his  own  particular  charge  was  a  herd  of 
zebras. 

When  the  chill  that  precedes  dawn  made  itself 
felt,  Bob  Venn  wrapped  the  two  boys  in  a  great 
coat,  to  the  fishy  smell  of  which  the  boy  from 
Cornwall  objected,  and  would  have  taken  it  off  but 
for  Violett's  convincing  him  that  such  a  proceed 
ing  would  inevitably  hurt  Bob  Venn's  feelings. 

On  the  homeward  flight,  the  boy  fell  asleep, 


VIOLETT  23 

greatly  to  Violett's  displeasure,  for  it  was  surely  a 
rather  impolite  thing  to  do. 

Bob  Venn,  on  reaching  his  cottage,  expressed  to 
his  mother  very  forcibly  the  wish  that  he  had  six 
sons,  all  of  which  should  go  to  play  with  that 
lonely  little  chap  at  the  island. 

The  summer  passed  quietly,  but  Violett  was  not 
lonely,  as  yet,  and  when  winter  came  again,  he  had 
a  new  occupation. 

One  day  when  Michael  was  at  work  in  the  tower, 
polishing  the  great  reflectors,  and  Agnes  busy  bot 
tling  beer  for  winter  use,  Violett  left  the  kitchen, 
where  he  always  sat,  and  roamed  listlessly  through 
the  other  rooms  of  the  house.  There  were  only 
four,  —  his  little  bedroom,  the  bedroom  of  the  old 
pair,  the  room  in  which  his  father  had  slept,  and 
the  little  best-room. 

In  this  room  there  was  a  small  book-case  full  of 
books,  and  the  sun,  rushing  into  the  room  through 
the  window  he  had  opened,  fell  upon  the  gay  bind 
ings  and  drew  his  eyes  to  them.  It  was  a  meagre 
collection  enough.  A  gilt-edged  volume  of  "Mor 
ris's  Poems,"  "Finelly's  Light-Houses,"  "Oliver 
Twist,"  with  Cruikshank's  pictures,  a  Bible,  "Rob 
inson  Crusoe,"  a  "Family  Medical  Guide,"  "The 
Pleasures  of  Memory,"  also  a  gift-book  edition, 
and  several  badly  bound,  badly  printed  books  by  one 
A.  Humphreys.  Violett  began  with  a  story  called 


24  VIOLETT 

"Horace  Lynn,"  the  chronicle  of  a  remarkably 
uninteresting  boy  who  became  a  clergyman.  The 
tale  was  as  dry  as  dust,  but  there  were  colored 
prints,  and  these  held  the  child's  interest,  and 
when  in  a  few  days  he  had  finished  the  book,  he 
took  the  next  one  to  it,  and  carrying  it  to  the 
kitchen  curled  up  in  Michael's  chair  and  began  to 
read. 

This  story,  also  a  child's  tale,  was  called  "The 
Adams  Family,"  and  the  Adamses  were  destined 
to  be  his  best  friends  for  many  years.  They  were 
a  delightful  family,  rather  unusually  good,  possi 
bly,  but  full  of  the  most  ingenious  schemes  for 
their  own  amusement.  Henry,  the  eldest,  a  youth 
of  sixteen,  was  almost  a  genius  in  the  carpentering 
line;  Amelia  made  the  garments  of  the  whole 
family,  the  father  excepted;  Louisa  sang  like  an 
angel,  and  prayed  for  her  friends  like  one  in 
spired.  Then  there  were  Edmund  and  Stephen 
and  the  baby  Sophia.  Stephen,  having  by  a  won 
derful  coincidence  the  name  of  the  boy  in  Corn 
wall,  Violett  at  once  adopted  as  his  own  particular 
friend,  and  when  he  had  read  the  book  through 
three  times,  took  to  adding  to  it.  It  is  easy  to  be 
a  whole  family  at  once  when  one  is  eleven,  and  in 
the  child's  mind  Henry,  Louisa,  Stephen,  and  the 
rest  soon  became  real  people. 

The  baby,  who   never   grew  any  older,  was   a 


VIOLETT  25 

very  important  person,  as  she  had  the  croup,  which 
necessitated  much  care  and  long  nocturnal  gallop- 
ings  for  the  doctor. 

When  spring  came  again  and  the  beach  could 
be  used  as  a  playground,  all  the  Adamses  used 
to  go  down  the  path  every  morning,  Violett  carry 
ing  the  baby,  Amelia  laden  with  her  work-basket. 
Henry's  architectural  genius  rose  to  the  most  sur 
prising  heights  at  this  time,  and  most  people,  not 
knowing  what  a  clever  boy  can  make  with  a  ham 
mer,  a  saw,  and  some  nails,  would  have  been  sur 
prised  by  the  houses  he  built  on  the  rocks.  Louisa 
cooked  for  the  family,  and  the  number  of  meals 
partaken  in  a  day  by  the  party  would  have  upset 
the  internal  organism  of  any  but  the  Adamses.  As 
long  as  Violett  lived,  the  Adamses  seemed  to  him 
to  be  more  or  less  real  people,  though  they  did  not 
grow  older  with  him,  but  remained  the  quaintly 
dressed  early  Victorian  children  that  they  were  the 
first  day  of  his  acquaintance  with  them. 

Old  Agnes  knew  about  them,  and  was  very  use 
ful  in  giving  advice  to  them  on  different  occasions. 
She  advised  a  hot  bath  as  first  aid  in  croup,  and 
though  Mrs.  Adams  apparently  scorned  such  a 
humble  treatment  and  clamored  for  the  doctor  as 
soon  as  Sophy  —  it  was  always  Sophy  —  began 
to  bark,  Violett  once  decided  to  send  for  the 
doctor,  and  while  awaiting  him  to  try  the  bath. 


26  VIOLETT 

The  effect  was  magical,  and  a  hot  bath,  in  spite 
of  Mrs.  Adams,  became  a  family  remedy.  Henry, 
Amelia,  Louisa,  Stephen,  Edmund,  Violett,  and 
Sophy  —  it  was  a  happy  septet. 

There  was  more  than  one  reason  why  Violett 
loved  them.  They  loved  him,  and  then  they  did 
not  know  that  terrible  thing  about  his  father. 


OXE  day  shortly  before  his  tenth  birthday,  Violett 
crossed  the  grass  behind  the  house,  and  reaching 
the  rocks,  clambered  out  on  them  to  a  great  hol 
low  one  that  was  called  the  Cradle. 

This  was  a  favorite  place  of  the  child's,  though 
strangely  enough  he  always  came  there  alone, 
without  the  Adamses. 

Below  him  lay  great  rough  crags  over  which 
the  sea  lapped  in  low  tide,  and  which  in  high  tide 
were  folded  away  in  her  green  draperies,  and  just 
fringed  with  white  froth.  Farther  down  stretched 
the  jagged  reef  that  led  to  the  mainland.  This  reef, 
never  hidden,  always  betrayed  by  a  few  dark 
points  and  fretted  with  churning  foam,  had  a  great 
charm  for  the  lonely  little  boy.  His  father  had 
several  times,  he  knew,  run  across  it,  once  when 
not  much  older  than  Violett  himself. 

Someday  —  but  this  was  a  dream,  one  of  the 
many  gentle,  vague  dreams  of  beautiful  things 
that  were  to  come  to  Violett,  Someday. 

Someday  he  was  to  take  care  of  the  light  all 
alone,  while  Michael  sat  snug  in  the  kitchen  by 
the  fire ;  Someday  he  was  to  find  a  sleeping  mer 
maid  curled  in  a  wave  of  sand ;  Someday  the  boy 


28  VIOLETT 

from  Cornwall  was  to  come ;  Someday  —  There 
were  a  great  many  Somedays. 

And  one  of  the  oftenest  dreamt-of  was  the  one 
when  Violett  was  to  run  at  low  tide  swiftly  along 
the  narrow,  slippery  ledge,  a  misstep  on  which 
meant  drowning,  and  with  an  easy,  delicious  spring 
jump  at  the  end  down  into  the  warm,  moist  sand 
of  the  beach. 

This  morning,  lying  on  his  side  at  full  length  in 
the  Cradle,  Violett  could  almost  feel  the  contact 
of  the  sand  with  his  bare  feet.  He  was  not  yet 
ten.  His  father  had  been  sixteen  —  six  years  was  a 
very  long  time  to  wait. 

And  then  suddenly  it  came  over  him  that  he 
could  not  wait  another  day;  that  he  must  go  that 
very  minute. 

Behind  him,  beyond  the  house,  Agnes  was  work 
ing  in  the  moist  earth,  loosening  it  carefully  about 
the  roots  of  her  few  flowers  with  a  broken  fork. 
Michael  sat  in  the  sun,  mending  clumsily  a  fish 
ing  line,  for  he  was  fond  of  fishing.  And  so  near 
them,  in  the  hot  sun,  the  child  they  loved  and  cared 
for  took  his  little  life  into  his  little  hands  and 
crossed  the  slippery  rocks  to  the  mainland. 

He  was  slight  and  supple,  and  his  bare  feet  were 
tough.  The  rough  edges  of  the  reef  did  not  hurt 
him  much;  he  did  not  slip  on  the  glutinous  sea 
moss;  he  did  not  grow  dizzy —  And  then,  just  as 


VIOLETT  29 

he  had  known  it  would  be,  his  heels  dug  deep 
holes  in  the  sand  as  he  jumped  down  into  it,  and 
with  a  laugh  of  delight  he  fell  sprawling  upon  his 
back. 

And  he  was  only  ten,  and  his  father  had  been 
sixteen. 

It  was  all  so  perfect  that  he  was  hardly  sur 
prised  to  see,  not  far  from  him,  a  child  playing 
with  a  basket  and  spade,  the  most  beautiful  child 
in  the  world,  with  fat  mouse-colored  legs  and  a 
white  frock. 

Violett  got  up  and  walked  towards  her.  She 
was  staring  at  him  with  solemn  blue  eyes.  "Can 
you  fly?  "  she  asked.  "Where  's  your  hat?  " 

"No,  I  can't  fly.  But  I  can  jump.  I  did  jump. 
My  hat 's  at  home." 

"What's  your  name?" 

"Violett  Maule.    What 's  yours?  " 

"Mine  's  Kitty  Sudds.   Violet 's  a  girl's  name." 

Violett  explained  to  her  that  it  was  also  a  boy's 
name,  for  it  was  his,  and  as  he  was  a  boy  it  must 
be.  Then  they  played  together. 

It  was  so  beautiful  to  the  solitary  little  boy,  this 
new  thing  of  playing  with  some  one  else.  Humbly 
he  obeyed  the  little  girl's  orders  as  if  she  were  a 
queen  and  he  her  slave,  and  with  the  unconscious 
arrogance  of  a  spoiled  child  she  gave  the  orders, 
one  after  the  other.  They  built  a  palace,  they  dug 


30  VIOLETT 

a  river,  they  raced  with  the  waves,  now  creeping 
higher  and  higher  up  the  beach.  And  time  went 
on. 

Kitty  promised  to  go  to  the  island  with  Violett, 
and  he  was  to  show  her  the  big  lantern.  The  stairs 
were  high,  but  he  would  help  her. 

Then  the  little  girl's  mother  came  from  where 
she  had  been  sitting  higher  up,  under  a  parasol,  — 
a  handsome  woman  with  painted  cheeks  and  large 
red  hands.  "Come  along,  Kit,"  she  said,  picking 
up  the  little  spade,  "bring  your  basket.  Your 
pa  '11  be  waiting  for  us." 

Violett,  who  was  shy,  took  courage.  "Please, 
may  she  come  home  with  me  to  see  the  light?  "  he 
asked. 

"The  light?  "Who  are  you?  Ain't  you  one  of 
the  fishermen's  boys? " 

"No  —  I  'm  Violett  Maule  "  — 

Madame  Leonora  Sudini,  trapeze-artist,  pushed 
him  aside  with  a  little  shriek. 

"The  boy  whose  pa  was  hung!"  she  cried. 
"  'Ow  dare  you  come  to  play  with  respectable  chil 
dren  !  Come  along,  Kitty !  " 

Violett  stood  still  where  they  left  him,  his  small 
brown  face  wan  in  the  sun.  Then  it  was  even  yet 
not  forgotten.  And  no  one  who  knew  would  play 
with  him,  it  seemed.  People  could  n't  play  with 
a  boy  whose  father  had  been  hanged. 


VIOLETT  31 

At  length  he  climbed  the  rocks  slowly.  The  reef 
was  covered;  a  gently  moving  foam  wreathed  and 
coiled  from  where  he  stood  out  to  the  Cradle.  It 
was  high  tide. 

Bob  Venn  in  his  row-boat  came  like  a  god  and 
rowed  him  back  to  the  landing.  Violett  did  not 
tell  the  kind  fisherman  the  morning's  story,  but 
Bob  talked  to  him,  scolded,  and  admired  him  for 
his  crossing  of  the  reef,  and  when  the  landing  was 
reached  Violett  was  half  consoled. 

Bob  Venn  loved  him,  and  the  Adamses!  The 
Adamses  didn't  mind,  either. 


VI 

OFTEN  as  he  played  with  the  Adamses,  Violett 
would  stop  speaking,  and  with,  in  his  eyes,  the 
vague  look  of  the  born  dreamer,  recall  the  bliss  of 
that  hour  on  the  beach  before  the  lady  with  the 
red  cheeks  came.  Kitty  was  so  beautiful,  with  her 
round  eyes,  invisible  nose,  and  fat  cheeks!  And 
after  all  it  was  better  not  to  have  to  do  all  the 
talking  one's  self. 

He  was  not  disloyal  to  the  Adamses,  but  living 
people  were  so  interesting! 

There  was  never  in  his  gentle  heart  the  ghost 
of  a  feeling  of  resentment  towards  the  lady  with 
the  red  cheeks;  he  unconsciously  accepted  as  a 
natural  law  of  things  that  people  could  not  play 
with  a  boy  whose  father  had  been  hanged.  And  it 
was  very  sad. 

Two  years  had  passed  since  his  father  had  been 
taken  away,  and  he  began  to  miss  even  Alice,  his 
little  cousin,  though  she  had  talked  seldom,  and 
had  not  been  much  good  as  a  playmate.  For  the 
first  time,  the  boy  began  to  be  lonely  as  well  as 
solitary. 

When  he  went  to  St.  Kilian's  with  Michael  the 
people  were  kind  enough  to  him,  but  his  shy  efforts 
to  be  friendly  with  the  children  were  met  with  an 


VIOLETT  33 

awkwardness  or  an  excitement  that  drove  him 
red-faced  back  to  Michael.  Once  some  little  girls 
admitted  him  to  a  sort  of  intimacy  based  on  his 
interest  in  their  dolls,  but  a  slight  dispute  brought 
a  circle  of  mocking  faces  around  him,  while  shrill 
voices  called,  "Father's  hung!  father's  hung!" 
until  he  fled,  his  hands  to  his  aching  ears,  to  tell 
Michael  that  he  would  come  to  St.  Kilian's  no 
more. 

"Ay,  Vi'lett,  that's  the  best.  You  bide  on 
the  island ;  that 's  the  best  place  for  'ee,  poor 
boy." 

So  Violett  bided  on  the  island,  and  began  to  be 
lonely.  One  day  in  September  Bob  Venn  came  out 
and  took  him  for  a  row.  Violett  sat  in  the  stern  of 
the  boat  and  told  the  big  fisherman  all  about  Kitty 
Sudds. 

"Wasn't  it  too  bad,  Bob?"   he  finished  sim- 

pty- 

Bob's  eyes  glistened.    "They  Sea-Urchins!  "  he 
said  in  a  voice  full  of  unequivocal  meaning. 
"How  do  you  mean,  Sea-Urchins?" 
"Oh,  it's  a  house,  a  cottage  'bout  half  a  mile 
inland,  called    Sea-Urchin   Cottage.     B'longs    to 
Capes,  an'  he  rents  it  to  different  parties,  —  play 
actors,  most  on  'em.    Don't  'ee  fret,  Vi'lett,  'bout 
what  such  as  them  says.    You  're  a  good  boy  an' 
us  loves  you,  by  God." 


34  VIOLETT 

"Yes,  Bob,  and  thank  you.  Only  I  wish  more 
people  loved  me." 

The  Cradle,  as  its  outlook  was  towards  the  main 
land,  and  from  it  he  could  see  the  place  where  he 
and  the  vanished  phantom  of  delight  had  played 
together,  became  Violett's  favorite  spot.  Here  he 
would  sit  and  invent  Somedays  by  the  hour,  to  the 
accompaniment  of  the  nibbling  of  the  waves  on  the 
rocks  below  him. 

One  day  as  he  sat  there,  his  arms  hugging  his 
knees,  he  gave  a  sudden  start.  Some  one  was  on 
the  beach  —  Kitty  Sudds!  The  distance  was  so 
short  that  he  could  see  the  color  of  her  hair  and 
her  sash. 

His  promise  given  to  Agnes  never  to  cross  the 
reef  again  was  forgotten,  and  a  few  minutes  later 
he  jumped  down,  as  he  had  before,  into  the  sand. 

Suddenly  a  feeling  of  fear  came  over  him.  Why 
had  he  come?  She  couldn't  play  with  him.  Oh, 
if  he  had  only  been  some  other  boy,  —  the  boy  in 
Cornwall,  for  instance.  He  rose  slowly  with  som 
bre  eyes,  and  then  his  heart  gave  a  thump.  It 
was  n't  Kitty  Sudds;  it  was  another  little  girl, 
with  pale  yellow  curls  and  the  smallest,  whitest 
face  he  had  ever  seen. 

Miss  Sudds  had  been  a  fairy;  this  was  an  angel. 
And  she  did  not  know  that  he  was  the  boy  whose 
father  had  been  hanged.  He  shut  his  eyes  for  a 


VIOLETT  35 

minute,  and  hoping  hard  that  she  would  not  ask 
his  name,  went  slowly  towards  her,  digging  his 
bare  toes  deep  into  the  wet  sand  to  give  himself 
courage. 

The  angel,  however,  possessed  the  useful  social 
quality  of  forthcomingness.  "Hello,  boy,"  she  ob 
served. 

"Hello,"  returned  Violett. 

"I  'm  digging  a  hole  through  to  China." 

"Through  what?" 

"Through  the  world,  goose.  Help  me  —  I'm 
tired." 

Violett  took  the  spade  and  worked  until  he 
panted,  while  the  angel  sat  down  and  looked  on. 

"My  father  's  going  to  give  me  sixpence  when 
I  've  reached  China.  He  's  asleep  there  under  the 
umbrella." 

Violett  did  not  like  talking  about  fathers.  "I  've 
got  two  shillings,"  he  put  in  hastily. 

"Have  you?   Where?"    All  roads  led  to  Rome. 

"  I  '11  —  I  '11  give  it  to  you.    Shall  I  ?  " 

The  angel  scrambled  to  her  feet.  "Oh,  yes,  do! 
Now!  This  minute!" 

"Can't.  I  '11  bring  it  to-morrow.  Are  you 
coming  to-morrow?" 

The  angel  nodded.  "Yes.  We  are  here  for  a 
long,  long  time,  'cause  father  's  ill." 

The  children  played  together  for  an  hour,  as  the 


36  VIOLETT 

sun  lowered  and  evening  came  on.  At  last,  tired, 
they  sat  down,  and  yielding  to  a  curiosity  that 
made  him  forget  prudence,  Violett  asked  her  her 
name. 

"  Minnie  Bayne.    What 's  yours  ?  " 

He  paused.  It  was  all  over,  then ;  as  soon  as  he 
had  told  her  she  would  go  away  in  indignation; 
and  he  loved  her. 

"Stephen  Adams,"  he  said  suddenly. 

It  was  the  first  lie  the  child  had  ever  told  in  his 
life,  and  it  had  almost  told  itself.  He  had  meant 
to  say  Violett  Maule  and  he  had  said  Stephen 
Adams. 

Minnie  nodded.  "That's  a  pretty  name.  I 
shall  call  you  Stevie." 

And  Stevie  was  the  most  beautiful  name  in  the 
world. 

Michael  had  missed  Violett,  and  suspecting  his 
whereabouts  rowed  in  to  look  for  him. 

As  the  boat  approached,  the  man  under  the  um 
brella  rose  and  joined  the  two  children.  He  was  a 
pale  man  with  very  little  hair,  and  deep-cut  wrin 
kles  all  over  his  face.  Violett  had  never  seen  such 
lines. 

"Well,  Min,"  the  man  said  in  a  curious  hoarse 
voice,  "found  a  sweetheart,  have  you?  What's 
your  name,  youngster?  " 


VIOLETT  37 

"His  name  's  Stevie  Adams,  pa,"  answered  the 
other  child,  "and  he's  coming  to  play  with  me 
every  day." 

She  could  not  pronounce  the  letter  "r,"  and 
twisted  her  red  lips  fantastically  in  her  efforts  to 
master  the  difficulty. 

"All  right.  Fisherman's  boy,  are  you  ?  Come 
along,  Min ;  the  Missis  '11  give  it  us  if  we  're 
late." 

Violett  watched  them  go  away  with  relief,  for 
the  boat  would  be  in  in  a  moment.  They  did  not 
look  around,  but  went  slowly  up  the  road,  the 
man's  high  shoulders  bent,  the  child  hopping  along 
beside  him  like  a  bird. 

Michael  was  angry  and  a  little  cross,  for  Violett 
had  broken  his  promise;  but  the  boy  hardly  heard 
his  rough  words.  He  was  thinking  of  Minnie 
Bayne. 


VII 

FOR  eight  weeks  Violett  lived  in  paradise.  That 
there  was  little  paradisiacal  in  the  temporary  in 
mates  of  Sea-Urchin  Cottage,  matters  not. 

Zola's  great  description  of  a  work  of  art  as  being 
a  bit  of  nature  seen  through  a  temperament  may 
be,  slightly  paraphrased,  made  to  explain  happi 
ness.  Happiness  is  a  circumstance  seen  through  a 
temperament,  and  Violett's  loving  heart  brought 
the  light  that,  shed  over  his  new  environment,  lent 
it  a  radiance  that  seemed  heavenly  to  him. 

Jim  Bayne,  "Song  and  Dance  Artist  on  the 
London  'Alls,"  as  he  described  himself,  his  wife, 
Senora  Dolores  Gomez,  Musical  Phenomenon,  and 
Mdlle.  Fee,  in  private  life  Miss  Bayne,  —  these 
were  the  people  who  gave  Violett  Maule  eight 
weeks  of  absolute  happiness  the  summer  when  he 
was  but  ten,  and  the  people  who  discovered  in  the 
quaint  brown  child  the  strange  sensitiveness  and 
capability  of  expression  of  impression  that  is  called 
genius. 

Day  after  day  Bayne  brought  Minnie  to  the 
shore  and  found  Violett  waiting  for  her.  Bayne 
then  stretched  his  tired  bones  out  on  the  soft  sand, 
dozing  until  the  children  approached  to  tell  him 
that  they  were  hungry.  The  man  was  overworked 


VIOLETT  39 

and  ill,  and  only  too  glad  to  know  that  his  daughter 
was  in  such  good  hands  as  he  instinctively  realized 
Violett's  to  be. 

Minnie,  a  docile,  delicate  child,  in  the  country 
for  the  first  time,  was  delighted  with  her  play 
mate. 

Violett  knew  the  most  wonderful  things.  He 
taught  her  to  lie  in  the  sand  just  out  of  reach  of 
the  waves,  and  to  listen  with  closed  eyes  to  the 
music  they  made.  "Do  you  hear?"  he  said  once 
to  her,  "the  beautiful  green  song?" 

"I  hear  'swish — swish,'  but  it  isn't  music, 
Stevie,  and  besides,  music  can't  be  green." 

Violett  sat  up  and  looked  at  her.  "  Music  can 
be  all  colors,  Minnie." 

The  only  music  he  had  ever  heard  was  the 
hymns  and  anthems  played  in  the  church  at  St. 
Kilian's  and  the  fiddling  of  an  old  man  who 
played  at  fairs  and  weddings. 

Minnie  looked  at  him  a  little  awed,  but  still  in 
clined  to  laugh  at  him.  "  You  are  a  funny  boy, 
Stevie.  My  father  can  play.  Oh,  he  can  play 
everything." 

"On  a  fiddle?" 

"No,  on  the  piano." 

"What  is  a  piano?" 

Minnie  reflected.  "It 's  a  long  box  with  keys, 
—  white  and  black  keys." 


40  VIOLETT 

"Do  you  turn  the  keys?" 

The  other  child  burst  out  laughing.  "Oh,  how 
funny!  No,  they  are  n't  keys  like  in  doors;  they 
are  white  and  black  things.  You  must  come  home 
with  me  some  day,  and  see  them." 

For  days,  however,  they  continued  to  play  on 
the  beach,  or  in  the  little  wood  that  ran  up  the 
hill  north  of  the  island. 

They  played  that  they  were  divers  beasts  and 
divers  people;  they  lay  very  quiet  among  the  un 
dergrowth  listening  to  the  songs  of  the  birds. 

Violett  knew  the  names  of  no  birds;  the  names 
he  taught  Minnie  were  of  his  own  making.  A 
yellow-wing,  a  welcome-spring,  a  golden -voice,  — 
these  were  some  of  them.  Each  bird-voice,  he  in 
sisted,  had  its  own  particular  color,  and  Minnie's 
persistency  in  not  hearing  the  color  was  the  only 
thing  that  ever  irritated  him  with  her. 

He  taught  her  to  see  a  bit  of  heaven  reflected  in 
the  dew-filled  cups  of  a  certain  kind  of  moss;  he 
taught  her  to  build  birds' -nests.  His  theory  was 
simple,  —  that  if  they  could  make  a  very  beautiful 
nest  some  absent-minded  bird  might  be  deluded 
into  thinking  it  hers  and  laying  her  eggs  in  it; 
and  then  the  joy  of  being  able  to  watch  them  being 
hatched  out,  and  later  of  helping  the  busy  parents 
provide  the  fledgelings  with  worms ! 

They  built  many  nests,  and  arranging  them  care- 


VIOLETT  41 

fully  on  conveniently  low  boughs,  laid  in  wait  quiv 
ering  with  confident  expectation  for  the  absent- 
minded  bird  that  never  came.  But  the  best  things 
were  after  all  found  at  the  edge  of  the  water,  — 
shells  and  seaweed,  wet  pebbles,  the  yellow  lace 
left  by  the  waves.  Minnie  learned  to  wade,  and 
watched  with  admiration  the  swimming  and  diving 
of  the  boy,  who  slipped  his  clothes  off  and  on  with 
primitive  simplicity,  and  ran  about  in  his  white 
skin  as  innocent  as  a  little  animal,  until  Bayne 
once  told  him  not  to. 

"Why  not?"  Violett  asked  with  grave  interest. 

The  man  hesitated.  "Well,  I  don't  know,  but 
people  keep  their  clothes  on,  as  a  rule." 

"Not  when  they  're  in  swimming." 

Bayne  laughed  gently.  "Perhaps  not,  but  you 
better  not  go  in  swimming  when  you  're  with  Min, 
—  she  can't  go  with  you,  you  see." 

Violett  was  satisfied. 

A  fortnight  passed  thus,  and  then  came  a  great 
day,  the  day  of  the  storm. 


VIII 

THE  storm  came  up  suddenly,  blowing  in  from  the 
sea,  and  darkening  the  water  like  the  approach  of 
an  uncanny  giant  bird. 

Bayne,  who  had  been  asleep,  woke  suddenly  to 
find  the  air  grown  chill,  the  sky  black.  Calling 
the  children,  he  found  them  standing  hand  in  hand 
at  the  edge  of  the  ocean.  Minnie's  small  face  was 
white  with  excitement.  The  sound  of  the  wind, 
Violett  had  told  her,  was  black,  and  she  fancied 
that  she  could  hear  the  color. 

"Oh,  pa!  hear  the  wind!    It  is  'black!" 

"Black?  It  's  bringing  a  storm;  we  must 
hurry." 

The  child  held  Violett's  hand  tight.  "Stevie 
must  come  too,  or  he  will  get  wet." 

Violett  laughed.  He  loved  a  storm,  and  no  more 
minded  getting  wet  than  would  a  duck. 

Bayne  looked  at  him  kindly  from  under  his 
grotesquely  bushy  eyebrows.  "Will  you  come, 
Stevie?" 

And  Violett  went  with  them.  The  rain  came 
down  as  they  reached  the  edge  of  the  wood,  and 
Bayne,  picking  Minnie  up  in  his  arms,  strode 
along,  panting  and  coughing,  his  coat-tails  flop 
ping  against  his  thin  legs. 


VIOLETT  43 

The  villa  was  a  shabby  house  with  sagging  doors 
and  loose  windows.  It  had  a  small  garden  with 
a  winding  path  from  which  most  of  the  gravel 
had  mysteriously  disappeared,  and  a  few  stunted 
trees. 

When  the  little  party  reached  it,  the  day  of  the 
storm,  they  went  in  at  a  side  door,  and  into  the 
little  sitting-room  where  the  senora  sat  reading  a 
dirty  but  romantic  novel.  Bayne  explained  in  a 
very  hoarse  voice  that  Min  was  soaked,  and  then 
he  and  the  child  went  upstairs  to  change,  leaving 
Violett  face  to  face  with  the  big  woman  in  the 
white  dressing-gown,  who  for  some  strange  reason 
reminded  him  of  the  lady  with  red  cheeks  of  hor 
rid  memory. 

He  knew  that  the  senora  played  on  little  silver 
barrels,  on  glasses  of  water,  on  bottles,  and  on 
various  other  articles  the  musical  qualifications  of 
which  were  not  patent  to  the  lay  eye.  But  there 
were  no  silver  barrels  to  be  seen,  and  the  big 
woman  continuing  to  eye  him  with  the  lazy  bene 
volence  habitual  to  her,  he  at  length  asked,  not 
timidly,  but  rather  with  a  sort  of  reserve,  "Won't 
you  please  play  on  something?" 

She  laughed,  showing  beautiful  teeth,  and  pick 
ing  up  a  pencil  from  the  table,  played  a  wonderful 
tune  with  it  on  her  teeth. 

"How  do  you  like  that?  "  she  asked. 


44  VIOLETT 

Gravely  he  gave  her  his  opinion.  "  It  is  funny, 
but  it  isn't  music." 

She  laughed  again,  reaching  for  the  soiled  pink 
satin  slipper  that  had  fallen  from  her  foot,  and 
picking  it  up  neatly  with  her  toes. 

"Min  's  been  talkin',  'as  she?"  she  returned,  in 
spite  of  her  Spanish  name,  in  the  English  of  Lime- 
house  Wharf.  "Did  she  tell  you  she  can  fly ? " 

"No,"  gasped  the  astonished  Violett. 

"Flies  like  a  bird  — don't  you,  Min?" 

The  senora  turned  lazily  to  her  daughter,  who 
had  just  entered. 

"  Oh,  Minnie,  are  n't  you  afraid  ?  "  Violett  was 
awed. 

Minnie  tossed  her  hair,  which  possessed  the  pe 
culiarity  of  being  tails  in  the  morning,  curls  in  the 
afternoon.  "  I  ain't  afraid.  Mr.  Lobbs  catches  me, 
and  the  band  plays  '  Don't  You  wish  You  could  ? ' ' 

She  was  an  abnormally  slight  little  creature  with 
blue  rings  about  her  eyes,  and  an  exhausted  voice 
that  now  and  then  threatened  to  go  out  altogether. 
She  was  only  eight,  always  said  "  beaucause,"  and 
her  r's  turned  to  v's,  greatly  to  her  distress.  Vio 
lett  watched  her  as  she  made  her  declaration  of 
fearlessness  with  a  strange  feeling  in  his  heart,  a 
feeling  almost  paternal.  He  loved  her  so ! 

"Pa,  play  something  to  Stevie.  'E  's  never  seen 
a  piano! " 


VIOLETT  45 

Bayne  laughed,  and  sitting  down  before  the 
black  box  in  the  corner,  opened  its  mouth,  and  its 
big  teeth  grinned  a  welcome  to  Violett  Maule. 

The  air  the  Song  and  Dance  man  played  was 
"  Loch  Lomond."  When  he  had  played  it  he 
turned.  In  his  excitement  the  boy  had  drawn  his 
thick  black  brows  down  over  his  light  eyes,  and 
his  face  was  like  a  grim  little  mask.  Slowly  he 
drew  near  to  the  wonderful  thing,  and  stretching 
out  his  hand  without  speaking,  touched  a  few  keys, 
one  at  a  time,  very  gently.  "  I  want  it  to  say  what 
it  did  to  you." 

The  senora  laughed.  "Lord  bless  you,  Stevie, 
it  was  Bayne  as  done  it !  " 

Violett  shook  his  head.  "I  want  it  to  say  what 
it  did  to  you,"  he  insisted.  Then  he  began  to  touch 
the  piano  with  both  hands,  in  perfect  rhythm,  but 
of  course  there  was  no  melody,  and  suddenly  he 
banged  both  closed  fists  down  on  the  discolored 
keys,  his  eyes  flashing  fire. 

The  seSora  was  delighted,  but  Bayne,  watching 
the  angry  young  face  with  sudden  interest,  began 
to  play  the  air  simply,  with  one  finger.  The  child 
followed,  slowly,  hesitatingly:  then  he  began  on 
another  note  and  played  it  in  a  new  key,  counting 
under  his  breath  and  going  on  from  key  to  key 
slowly,  laboriously,  but  at  last  almost  without  a 
fault. 


46  VIOLETT 

Suddenly  he  stopped.  "That 's  all  clear  blue  — 
do  you  hear,  Min?  " 

"What  do  you  mean,  Stevie?"  It  was  Bayne 
who  spoke,  his  ugly  thin  face  alight  with  interest. 

"I  mean  the  color  of  the  song  —  of  the  music. 
It  is  blue;  you  hear  it?  It  was  red  when  you 
played  it  first,  but  this  is  prettier." 

Bayne  shook  his  head.  "But  it 's  just  the  same 
tune  wherever  I  play  it." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  explained  Violett  patiently, "  only  it 's 
a  different  color."  And  Bayne,  placing  him  in  a 
window,  with  his  back  to  the  piano,  tried  him  in  all 
the  keys.  C  major,  the  original,  remained  red,  a 
color  he  hated,  and  B  flat  major  the  blue  he  loved. 

The  storm  was  over  and  the  sky  clear  again 
when  Violett  said  good-by  to  the  Baynes  and  set 
out  for  home.  As  was  his  custom,  he  went  down 
the  road  to  St.  Kilian's,  as  far  as  Bob  Venn's 
lonely  cottage,  and  begged  the  good  fisherman  to 
row  him  to  the  island.  "Bob,"  the  child  said 
as  the  boat  bounded  along  over  the  high  waves, 
"Minnie's  father  has  a  piano." 

"Has  he,  now?  The  Hector  has  one  too,  but 
I  've  never  seen  it.  What 's  it  like,  Vi'lett?  " 

Violett  trailed  his  hand  in  the  water.  "It's  a 
big  box,  Bob,  full  of  music  that  comes  when  you 
call  it.  It  is  more  beautiful  than  everything  in 
the  world  except  the  sea." 


IX 

THAT  night  Violett  awoke  in  his  little  dark  room 
with  the  most  wonderful  sensation.  He  had  been 
playing  on  a  piano,  making  music  that  still  rang 
in  his  ears,  and  his  hands  rested  on  the  cool  keys 
quiet  and  gentle,  full  of  the  stillness  of  strength 
and  power.  He  could  play! 

The  child  lay  still  for  several  seconds,  enjoying 
the  consciousness  with  a  keenness  that  was  almost 
pain,  and  then  —  the  keys  were  only  the  sheet  on 
his  bed,  and  he  only  Violett  Maule,  who  could  not 
play. 

It  was  a  bitter  disappointment,  but  one  consola 
tion  remained.  Above  and  around  the  sound  of  the 
waves  on  the  rocks,  interwoven  and  blended  with 
that  music  which  had  been  in  his  ears  all  his  life, 
pulsed  the  splendid  melody  that  he  had  heard  in 
his  dream.  And  he  knew  that  it  was  the  song  of 
the  sea  which  had  suddenly  become  intelligible  to 
him.  He  had  heard  it  all  his  life,  and  yet  he  heard 
it  now  for  the  first  time. 

Quietly  he  rose,  and  dressing  in  the  darkness, 
for  fear  of  disturbing  Agnes  and  Michael,  the 
child  went  out  into  the  night.  It  was  a  very  black 
night,  moonless  and  starless.  The  sea  was  still 
rhythmically  singing  its  song;  and  standing  in  the 


48  VIOLETT 

little  garden,  Violett  raised  his  frail  child's  voice 
and  joined  in  the  music. 

It  was  the  most  beautiful  music  in  the  world, 
and  it  had  come  to  him.  All  his  life  it  seemed  that 
music  came  to  him,  not  that  he  himself  made  it. 
His  voice  disturbed  a  bird  in  a  tree;  it  chirped 
fretfully.  After  a  pause  the  boy  went  down  to  the 
little  beach.  It  was  warmer  there  in  the  sheltered 
cove,  and  the  warm  sand  pleasant  to  his  bare  feet. 

And  the  sea  sang,  and  at  its  edge  stood  the  boy, 
listening  in  the  darkness. 


THE  next  morning  Violett  was  kept  busy  skimming 
the  froth  from  a  brass  kettle  of  cooking  fruit. 
Agnes  was  making  jelly.  He  was  not  discon 
tented,  —  he  was  never  that,  —  but  when  dinner 
was  over,  he  sped  at  once  to  the  Sea-Urchin  to  tell 
Minnie  the  wonderful  tale  of  the  night.  When  he 
reached  the  cottage  he  found  its  inmates  very  busy, 
a  surprising  state  of  things.  Mrs.  Bayne  was  mov 
ing  slowly  about  the  small  parlor,  dusting  the  or 
naments,  her  white  dressing-gown  trailing  rather 
magnificently  on  the  shabby  carpet.  Bayne  was 
in  the  garden,  arranging  in  a  corner  under  the  trees 
a  table  and  several  chairs,  and  even  Minnie  was 
at  work  stuffing  tight-packed  bunches  of  asters 
into  three  vases,  on  the  little  balcony,  —  her  hair, 
instead  of  hanging  limply  far  below  her  waist,  as 
was  usual  at  that  time  of  day,  rolled  up  into  hard 
lumps  on  the  back  of  her  head  and  bristling  with 
crossed  hairpins. 

"Oh,  Stevie,"  she  cried  as  he  came  up  the  path, 
"we  're  going  to  have  company!    A  party!  " 

Violett  stood  still;  his  heart  sank. 

"Oh!"  he  said. 

The  senora,  who  had  come  out  from  her  labors 


50  VIOLETT 

and  stood  behind  her  daughter,  smiled,  and  waved 
her  large  white  hand  graciously. 

"You  may  come  too,  Stevie.  There  is  always 
room  for  one  more  at  the  Baynes'." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Senora.    I  —  I  thank  you." 

His  eyes  filled  with  tears  of  gratitude,  which 
the  big  woman  saw,  and  which  gratified  her. 

"Only  a  few  friends  —  faithful  friends,"  she 
went  on,  laying  her  hand,  in  which  the  duster 
might  have  been  a  lace  handkerchief,  on  Minnie's 
head.  "A  little  supper,  a  little  music  —  that  is 
all.  As  the  Bible  says,  '  a  feast  of  friends  and  a 
flow  of  soul.'" 

Her  h's  were  unsteady,  her  a's  trended  i-ward 
as  the  sparks  fly  upward,  but  her  voice  was  big 
and  mellow,  her  manner  really  rather  splendid. 

Violett  adored  her.  He  had  become  used  to  her 
resemblance  to  the  lady  with  the  red  cheeks,  and 
unconsciously  set  it  down  to  its  right  source:  the 
senora,  too,  had  red  cheeks  and  red  lips.  When  he 
had  admired  the  arrangement  of  the  parlor,  which 
had  burst  into  a  bloom  of  photographs  and  bric-a- 
brac,  and  been  taken  upstairs  by  Minnie  to  ad 
mire  the  seuora's  gown  that  lay  spread  over  the 
bed,  a  glory  of  mauve  satin  and  small  glittering 
things  like  fish-scales  in  the  sun,  Minnie  sent  Vio 
lett  home  to  dress.  "I  'm  going  to  wear  my  pink 
sash,  Stevie,  an'  my  co-vals.  What  '11  you  wear?  " 


VIOLETT  51 

Violett's  Sunday  suit  looked,  as  he  surveyed  it 
an  hour  later,  —  after  having  run  all  the  way  to 
Bob  Venn's  cottage  and  prevailed  on  the  fisher 
man's  mother,  in  the  absence  of  her  son,  to  row 
him  home,  —  very  inadequate  to  the  great  occa 
sion. 

"Agnes,"  he  said  gravely,  "I  need  a  new  coat." 

"Yes.  You  shall  have  one  for  Christmas, 
Vi'lett." 

"But,  Agnes,  am  I  very  poor?  Mr.  Barton 
said  there  was  money  "  — 

The  old  woman  pushed  back  her  close  red  curls 
impatiently.  "Thou  's  too  little  to  understan',  my 
dearie.  Trust  old  Agnes,  and  don't  'ee  bother 
'bout  coat.  Come,  brush  your  hair." 

To  his  surprise,  in  spite  of  the  tightness  of  his 
coat  and  the  shortness  of  his  trousers,  Violett  was 
a  success  at  the  party. 

When  he  came  in,  shy  and  still,  one  of  the  faith 
ful  friends,  a  yellow-haired  lady  with  big  glisten 
ing  stones  in  her  ears,  gave  a  little  shriek. 

"Oh,  you  sweet  boy!  Come  here  and  tell  me 
your  name ! " 

She  took  Violett's  hand  and  pushed  his  brown 
hair  back  from  his  brown  brow. 

"Lor,  Dooloars,  what  a  lovely  little  fellow! 
Quite  the  gentleman,  too !  " 

The  senora,  who  was  fanning  herself  with  Ian- 


52  VIOLETT 

guid  grace,  nodded  slowly.  "Oh,  yes,  indeed, 
Clare.  'Is  father's  'istory  is  most  interesting.  I 
must  tell  it  to  you." 

Violett  turned  perfectly  white  under  his  sun 
burn,  and  gripped  the  yellow-haired  lady's  hand 
so  tight  that  she  winced. 

"Good  gracious!  'ow  'e  squeezed  my  'and!" 
she  said,  with  a  giggle,  as  Violett  drew  away  from 
her  and  went  out  on  the  balcony,  where  Minnie 
was  sitting. 

So  the  senora  knew  about  his  father.  And  she 
had  let  him  stay.  And  she  was  good  to  him.  His 
head  whirled,  his  lips  shook.  He  would  die  for  the 
senora.  He  would  — 

Minnie  looked  up  at  him  curiously.  "Why, 
Stevie,  whatever  is  the  matter?"  she  asked, 
smoothing  the  folds  of  her  very  clean  frock. 

"Nothing,"  Violett  returned.  "Oh,  Minnie, 
how  beautiful  your  mother  is !  " 

One  of  the  men  heard  his  remark,  and  turning 
repeated  it  to  the  company.  Every  one  screamed 
with  laughter,  but  the  senora' s  dignity  was  un 
shaken.  "Poor  child,"  she  murmured  to  Mrs. 
St.  Pierre,  who  was  a  leading  dramatic  luminary  in 
certain  small  cities,  "  'e  's  that  fond  of  me.  As  I 
was  saying,  'is  father  was  younger  son  to  a  dook. 
I  was  told  in  confidence,  so  I  cawn't  tell  the  nime, 
but  'e  married  "  —  Violett  was  admiring  Minnie's 


VIOLETT  53 

curls  now,  as  they  hung  over  the  back  of  her  chair. 
He  did  not  hear. 

His  heart  was  big  with  gratitude  and  love. 

Supper  was  served  at  seven.  Beside  homelier 
dainties  there  was  a  great  pink  cake  from  town,  an 
'umble  tribute  from  the  St.  Pierres;  chocolates  in 
a  glazed  box,  brought  by  Mr.  Lobb,  a  small  man 
with  enormous  shoulders  and  a  broken  front  tooth ; 
and  to  crown  the  whole,  rivers  of  champagne,  which 
the  company  drank  out  of  tumblers. 

The  senora,  in  the  contemplation  of  whose  sud 
denly  slender  waist  Violett  was  much  interested, 
presided  with  a  grace  the  little  boy  firmly  believed 
unique;  opposite  her  sat  Bayne,  his  pale  face 
ghastly  above  his  black  coat  and  white  satin  cravat. 

Mr.  Lobb  sat  by  the  senora,  Mrs.  St.  Pierre 
by  the  host,  —  Mr.  St.  Pierre,  a  youth  of  twenty, 
and  the  other  lady,  Miss  Mae  Bohun,  and  the  two 
children  occupying  the  other  seats. 

Violett  was  very  silent,  but  he  was  so  happy 
that  he  trembled. 

The  old  care-taker,  Mrs.  Binns,  who  lived  at 
Sea-Urchin  Cottage  all  the  year  round,  came  in  at 
length  and  removed  from  the  table  that  part  of  the 
service  which  belonged  to  the  house. 

"I  ain't  a-goin'  to  'ave  my  things  smashed,"  she 
answered,  when  remonstrated  with,  "and  I  can  see 
'ow  things  is  a-goin'." 


54  VIOLETT 

Instead  of  being  angry,  as  Violett  expected,  the 
senora  and  the  guests  laughed  helplessly,  and  Miss 
Bohun  spilt  her  champagne  on  Mr.  St.  Pierre's 
sleeve,  an  accident  that  apparently  gave  Mr.  St. 
Pierre  the  greatest  satisfaction. 

Only  four  glasses  remaining  after  the  rescue 
by  Mrs.  Binns,  the  ladies  consented  to  drink  out 
of  the  gentlemen's  glasses.  Violett  thought  them 
all  so  good-humored.  He  liked  champagne,  and 
the  senora  gave  him  a  great  deal. 

Mrs.  St.  Pierre  sang  a  ballad,  about  a  little 
boy  who  tried  to  find  the  road  to  heaven,  whither 
his  mother  had  gone ;  Mr.  St.  Pierre  gave  a  reci 
tation,  of  which  he  unfortunately  forgot  the  end, 
though  no  one  seemed  to  notice  the  omission. 
Bayne  was  urged  to  sing,  and  refused.  He  was 
the  least  agreeable  of  the  party,  Violett  thought. 
Miss  Bohun,  urged  to  "do  "  a  dance,  regretted  her 
inability  to  oblige,  as  champagne  always  went  to 
her  feet.  And  Violett,  longing  to  do  something 
great  and  beautiful  for  them  all,  because  they  did 
not  mind  about  his  father,  leaned  back  in  his  chair 
and  fell  asleep. 


XI 

JIM  BAYNE  played  every  day  for  Vlolett.  It 
amused  him  to  play  something  and  then  make  the 
child  sing  it  to  him.  Then  he  would  repeat  the 
song  in  another  key,  and  Violett,  commenting 
gravely,  "Now  it's  blue,"  or  "Now  it's  gray," 
his  way  of  explaining  the  change  of  tone,  would 
sing  it,  almost  without  exception,  unerringly. 

Bayne  could  not  talk  much,  for  talking  made 
him  cough,  but  once  he  burst  out  impatiently, 
"It 's  all  rot  about  the  colors,  Stevie!  Music  ain't 
got  any  color,  and  it 's  wicked  to  tell  lies." 

Violett  looked  at  him. 

"I'm  not  telling  lies.  It  is  true.  Can't  you  hear 
that  that  is  blue  ?  And  when  you  play  it  two  keys 
higher  up,  it  turns  green,  like  lime-leaves  in  the 
spring.  I  wish  you  could  hear  it." 

Bayne  could  not  hear  it,  nor  could  the  senora  or 
Minnie,  so  Violett  tried  to  keep  his  sensations  to 
himself,  but  it  no  more  occurred  to  him  that  he 
could  not  hear  color  than  that  he  could  not  hear 
sound. 

The  senora,  who  was  possessed  of  a  languid 
grace  supposedly  due  to  her  Spanish  extraction, 
used  to  lie  on  the  sofa  during  the  lessons,  nibbling 
chocolates  and  picking  up  her  constantly  falling 


56  VIOLETT 

satin  slippers  with  her  remarkably  prehensile 
toes. 

"Play  'im  something  lively,  Jim,"  she  suggested 
once,  when  Violett  had  been  transposing  "Loch 
Lomond  "  into  several  keys,  Bayne  looking  on. 

Her  husband  shook  his  head.  "No,  Dooloars," 
he  returned.  "'E  needs  to  'ear  good  stuff,  and 
I  'm  blessed  if  I  know  any." 

Violett  paused,  smiling  at  him. 

"It  is  all  good,  Mr.  Bayne,  what  you  play." 

But  Bayne  shook  his  head  again. 

"'E  needs  instruction,  that 's  what  'e  needs,"  he 
went  on  later  to  the  senora.  "  'E  's  got  genius, 
that  boy,  and  I  —  I  can't  teach  'im." 

"Genius  don't  need  instruction,  you  old  gaby," 
Senora  Dolores  scoffed  good-naturedly.  "Genius 
teaches  itself.  Who  taught  me  to  play  on  gob 
lets?" 

Years  ago  Bayne  had  had  a  sense  of  humor,  and 
even  now  the  shadow  of  a  smile  passed  over  his 
cadaverous  face.  Then  he  answered,  returning  to 
Violett  in  his  mind,  — 

"Genius  needs  instruction  more  than  anything. 
It 's  a  good  slave,  but  a  bad  master." 

But  the  senora  had  dropped  asleep,  and  did  not 
hear  him. 

Mr.   Winnock,   the  rector  of  the  parish,  was 


VIOLETT  67 

walking  in  his  sweet  old  walled  garden  a  few  even 
ings  later,  looking  at  his  ripening  wall-fruit  and 
enjoying  his  roses,  when  some  one  knocked  at  the 
gate.  The  rector  opened  it,  and  Jim  Bayne  came 
in. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  the  man  began 
hoarsely,  "I  am  the  tenant  of  Sea-Urchin  Villa." 

Mr.  Winnock  nodded  blandly.  He  was  a  large, 
handsome  man  of  middle  age,  with  a  peculiarly 
fine  voice.  "Indeed?  "  he  asked. 

"My  name  is  Bayne.  If  I  might  sit  down? 
I  've  no  lungs  to  speak  of,  sir." 

The  rector  led  him  to  a  bench,  and  stood  look 
ing  approvingly  at  the  sunset  until  the  music-hall 
artist  had  got  his  breath. 

"There  's  a  boy  that  plays  with  my  girl,  sir, 
and  'e  's  a  musical  genius,  unless  I  'm  much  mis 
taken,  which  I  ain't." 

"A  musical  genius?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  'E  's  only  ten,  and  he  plays  by  ear 
everything  I  play  for  him.  'E  plays  'Andel's 
Largo  in  every  key  on  the  board." 

Mr.  Winnock  was  interested.  "  Dear  me  —  does 
he,  really?" 

Bayne  studied  the  handsome,  rather  stupid  face 
with  the  keenness  of  the  clever  man  who  has  had 
to  earn  his  bread. 

"I  have  heard  you  preach,  sir,"  he  went   on 


58  VIOLETT 

politely,  "and  I  says  to  myself,  '  Bayne,  Mr.  Win- 
nock  is  the  man  to  know  what  to  do  with  Stevie ; 
'e  's  the  only  one  hereabouts  who  would  under 
stand  genius  '  "  — 

"You  flatter  me,  Mr.  B — Baynes."  Which  was 
truer  than  he  knew. 

"  Only  ten,  you  say  ?  But  many  children  play  by 
ear.  I  did  myself." 

"  Mr.  Winnock  —  if  I  may  make  so  free,  sir  — 
you  let  him  play  to  you.  I  'm  an  artist  myself  and 
I  've  had  a  lot  to  do  with  artists,  /know.  Stevie 
is  born  to  be  great." 

The  rector  smiled  at  him. 

'"''Sterne?  Surely  not  Stephen  Love,  the  shep 
herd's  boy?" 

"No,  no  !  The  lightkeeper's  boy,  Mr.  Win- 
nock.  The  little  brown  chap  with  light  eyes  "  — 

"But  that's  poor  little  Maule!  Violett  Maule! 
God  bless  my  soul!  Why  do  you  call  him  Ste 
vie?" 

Bayne  stared.  "  Violett  ?  'E  said  'is  name  was 
Stephen —  Stephen  Adams,  sir!  " 

"Dear  me,  dear  me,  that  is  bad,  very  bad!  A 
child  of  ten  lying  about  his  own  name  !  However, 
the  poor  boy  has  reason  enough  to  be  ashamed  of 
his." 

Bayne  looked  his  inquiry. 

"  It  was  his  father  who  poisoned  the  little  half- 


VIOLETT  59 

witted  child  two  years  and  a  half  ago,  for  her 
inheritance  "  — 

"Was  it  indeed!  Well  really,  now!"  Bayne's 
ugly  face  was  full  of  pity.  "Poor  boy!  " 

Before  he  left  the  now  shadowy  garden,  he  had 
persuaded  the  rector  to  shed  the  light  of  his  coun 
tenance  on  Violett. 

Bayne  said  nothing  to  his  wife  and  daughter 
about  Violett's  real  name. 


XII 

THE  rector  came,  heard,  and  was  conquered.  The 
result  of  his  interest  was  at  first  a  most  horrible 
one  to  Violett. 

He  was  given  piano  lessons.  Every  other  day 
he  went  to  the  Baynes',  and  for  an  hour  was  in 
structed  in  the  elements  of  the  art  of  music  by  a 
little  Frenchwoman  who  had  come  to  the  neigh 
borhood  as  a  governess,  married  the  village  apothe 
cary,  and  settled  there.  Her  name  was  legally 
Mrs.  Patch,  but  she  having,  before  her  courtship 
began,  nicknamed  the  obsequious  little  apothecary, 
in  translation  of  his  name,  La  Mouche,  her  pupils 
in  turn  dubbed  her  Mouchette,  and  Mouchette  she 
had  remained,  though  twenty  years  had  passed 
since  her  marriage. 

Mouchette,  then,  a  small,  trim  person  with 
beautiful  little  hands  and  an  elaborate  coiffure  of 
curls  and  braids,  came,  armed  with  a  well  sharp 
ened  pencil  and  an  apple,  in  what  Minnie  and  Vio 
lett  called  her  "ridiculous  bag,"  to  teach  Violett  to 
play  the  piano. 

Those  were  hours  of  rapturous  torture  for  the 
little  old  woman,  for  Violett  hated  his  lessons, 
and  showed  an  ingenuity  in  tormenting  her  that 
evoked  Minnie's  jubilant  admiration.  The  apple, 


VIOLETT  61 

cut  into  halves,  quarters,  eighths,  etc.,  was  used  to 
teach  him  the  value  of  the  notes,  —  something 
that  he  never  learned. 

Then  he  refused  gently  but  absolutely  to  call 
the  keys  by  any  but  their  color  names,  and  as  he 
could  play  anything  by  ear  when  he  had  heard 
it  twice,  the  little  duets  she  tried  to  teach  him 
nearly  killed  her. 

Suddenly,  without  breaking  off,  the  boy  would 
change  into  another  key,  and  go  on  quite  correctly 
in  that  key,  but  thereby  turning  poor  Mouchette's 
simple  accompaniment  into  the  most  hideous  dis 
cord. 

Her  admiration  for  him  was  infinite,  but  some 
times  she  cried  from  sheer  vexation ;  then  he  would 
kiss  her  pretty  hands,  and  be  very  good  for  the 
rest  of  the  hour. 

What  they  both  enjoyed  the  most  was  when 
Violett  stood  looking  away  from  the  piano,  and 
called  out  to  her  the  names  of  the  keys  as  she  played 
different  things  to  him. 

"  Red !  bah !  —  horrid  bright  red !  " 

"Oh,  Stevie!" 

"  Well,  C  major,  then.  Go  on !  That 's  green 
—  I  mean  F  sharp  major.  I  should  think  any  one 
could  hear  that  green." 

lie  was  very  dull  about  learning  to  read  notes, 
and  never  learned  to  count  without  great  trouble. 


62  VIOLETT 

Mouchette's  shrill  little  voice  was  often  raised 
in  a  tragi-comic  despair  over  his  stupidity. 

"Dieu,  qu'il  est  etonnant,  cegar9on!  C'est  a 
la  fois  un  genie  et  une  bete!"  And  Violett,  de 
lighting  in  his  new-found  pastime  of  teasing  her, 
would  repeat  her  words  most  accurately,  and  then 
very  rapidly  say  them  backwards. 

He  had,  too,  a  horrible  way  of  playing  things 
backwards  that  drove  her  perfectly  frantic. 

"Oh,  Stevie,  you  are  a  bad  boy,"  Minnie  told 
him  once,  not  without  the  vaingloriousness  of  a 
"good  child."  Violett  looked  at  her.  He  never 
teased  her. 

"I  am  not  a  bad  boy,  Minnie.  But  I  do  so  hate 
all  that  stuff  Mouchette  tells  me!  The  piano 
never  tells  her  beautiful  things,  and" —  He 
broke  off.  Even  to  Minnie  he  could  not  confide 
his  conviction  that  the  piano  hated  the  lessons  as 
much  as  he  did. 

Sometimes  he  stayed  away  from  his  lesson,  and 
had  to  be  fetched  by  Bayne,  who  in  such  cases 
invariably  found  him  either  in  the  water  or  lying 
very  near  it. 

It  then  appeared  that  Violett  had  suddenly 
found  it  perfectly  impossible  to  look  at  a  piano 
that  day.  "If  I  did,  all  the  color  would  go  out  of 
everything,"  he  said;  and  Bayne,  who,  though  still 
inwardly  irritated  by  the  persistence  with  which 


VIOLETT  63 

he  clung  to  his  color  theory,  had  learned  the  use- 
lessness  of  contesting  it,  would  sit  down  beside 
him  and  try  to  persuade  him  —  always  quite  use 
lessly  —  to  go  back  to  the  villa  with  him. 

The  rector  was  never  told  of  these  attacks  of 
gentle  insubordination.  Mouchette  herself  would 
not  allow  it.  "He  is  not  like  other  children,"  the 
little  old  woman  would  say,  with  a  wise  shake  of 
her  head.  "He  is  above  us  all,  and  we  must  give 
him  time.  Only  time  will  cure  him  of  his  divine 
foolishness,  and  only  time  can  ripen  that  most 
delicate  fruit,  genius." 

Once,  while  Mouchette  sat  waiting,  gazing  sadly 
at  her  apple,  Minnie  went  with  Bayne  to  fetch  the 
truant.  They  found  him  on  the  beach,  buried  up 
to  his  chin  in  the  hot  sand,  his  small  face  looking 
very  strange,  thus  apparently  bodiless. 

"I  will  not  come,  Mr.  Bayne,"  the  head  said 
gently. 

"Oh,  Stevie,  please,"  put  in  Minnie. 

And  Violett  came,  as  he  had  never  since  the  first 
day  refused  her  anything. 

The  lesson  was,  however,  a  dreadful  failure,  so 
that  Minnie  never  again  was  allowed  to  influence 
her  playmate. 

Thus  the  summer  passed  by.  It  was  a  beautiful 
summer. 


XIII 

THE  first  of  October  it  rained,  and  the  Baynes 
went  away. 

Violett  walked  with  them  to  Barnfield,  where 
they  took  the  train,  and  then,  having  been  kissed 
by  them  all  in  turn,  and  having  nearly  choked  the 
senora,  he  watched  the  train  out  of  sight  and  went 
slowly  back. 

Back  over  the  sandy  road  through  the  slant 
rain;  back  past  the  dear  cottage,  where  Mrs. 
Binns,  grim  of  visage,  was  slamming  the  shutters 
to  as  he  passed;  back  to  the  beach,  the  sand  of 
which  was  beaten  by  the  rain  to  a  darker  color ; 
back  in  the  clumsy  old  boat  to  the  island ;  back 
to  the  lonely  old  days,  and  to  the  Adamses. 

Old  Agnes  watched  the  child  a  little  anxiously 
for  a  few  days  as  he  sat  quietly  in  his  corner, 
house-bound  by  the  pouring  rain. 

"He  's  lonely,  Michael,"  she  said  sadly,  "lonely, 
poor  child,  and  lonely  he  's  bound  to  be  all  's 
life." 

Michael  nodded.  "Ay.  Me  an'  Bob  Venn  was 
sayin'  t'  other  day,  God's  curse  is  on  'im." 

But  Agnes  shook  her  head  indignantly.  "  Shame 
on  'ee,  Michael  Corey.  The  God  o'  justice  an' 


VIOLETT  66 

mercy  be  n't  goin'  to  curse  an  innocent  child  for 
what  his  father  did.  You  're  an  old  fool !  " 

"  Don't,  Agnes !  'T  was  you  yourself  as  said  the 
boy  was  bound  to  be  lonely  all  'is  life, — didn't 
'ee,  now?" 

"  Yes.  But  lonely  is  far  from  accursed,  Michael. 
Many  a  man  an'  wumman  has  been  lonely  under 
God's  blessing." 

And  Violett  was  lonely  but  for  a  short  time. 
The  rector's  niece,  Miss  Kose  Carstairs,  the  most 
splendid,  beautiful,  and  perfect  young  lady  in  the 
world,  came  to  live  with  him,  and  she  chose  Vio 
lett  for  her  friend.  The  rector,  who  was  very  kind, 
as  are  so  many  pompous  people,  had  allowed  Mou- 
chette  to  bring  the  boy  to  the  rectory  once  in  a 
while  for  a  lesson  on  the  old  Erard  in  the  drawing- 
room,  and  one  misty  day  in  late  October  Rose 
came  in.  She  listened  to  poor  Mouchette's  martyr 
dom,  for  it  was  a  bad  day,  and  Violett' s  fingers 
full  of  mischief;  and  then  when  the  little  old 
Frenchwoman  had  hurried  away  through  the  yel 
low  dusk,  Rose,  who  had  made  Violett  stay,  had 
a  long  talk  with  him. 

She  learned  all  about  the  island,  about  Agnes 
and  Michael,  about  the  Adamses,  about  Minnie  and 
the  senora  and  Bayne. 

Then  she  was  told  of  the  color  of  the  keys,  and 
understood  perfectly.  She  understood,  also,  that 


66  VIOLETT 

there  is  nothing  in  the  world  so  splendid  as  the 
song  of  the  sea,  and  even  appreciated  the  fearful 
joy  of  playing  things  backward. 

She  was  an  understanding  person,  Violett  told 
Agnes  that  evening,  and  understanding  persons 
are  none  too  many. 

The  winter  was  early  and  severe  that  year.  Of 
ten  Violett  could  not  go  for  his  lesson,  but  when 
he  could,  Rose  kept  him  for  an  hour  after  it,  and, 
quite  opposed  to  poor  Mouchette's  rock-bound 
musical  principles,  helped  him  to  play  by  ear,  en 
couraging  his  small  brown  hands  in  their  amazing 
winning  of  the  keys.  She  was  a  quiet-faced  girl, 
this  understanding  person,  with  an  absent  look  in 
her  clear  eyes.  Violett  always  knew  that  she  was 
lonely.  Once  he  asked  her  very  gently,  "Was 
your  father  hung  too,  Miss  Rose  ?  " 

And  she  understood  that,  too,  and  kissed  him, 
and  pressed  his  dark  head  to  the  breast  whose 
troubled  beat  he  could  feel. 

Agnes  grew  more  silent  that  winter,  and  more 
fond  of  standing  at  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  gazing  at 
the  wind-blown  waters. 

She  was  a  hardy  old  woman,  and  even  when  it 
was  very  cold  a  small  shawl  over  her  head  was 
her  only  wrap. 

The  sea  and  the  sky  seemed  to  Lave  for  her  the 


VIOLETT  67 

greatest  charm,  and  she  would  stand  curiously  mo 
tionless  in  the  whirl  and  flutter  of  her  skirts  and 
her  shawl,  her  old  eyes  fixed  on  the  water  or  the 
clouds. 

"You  love  the  water,  don't  you,  Agnes?" 
Violett  once  asked  her. 

"Yes.  God  made  the  water  first,  Vi'lett,"  she 
answered  in  her  careful  English.  "  '  The  spirit  of 
God  moved  on  the  face  of  the  waters.'  That  was 
before  he  made  light.  Sometimes  I  think  that "  — 
she  broke  off  short. 

"What  do  you  sometimes  think,  Agnes?" 

"Only  that  God's  spirit  rests  on  the  water  in 
the  darkness,  even  now." 

"At  night?" 

"Ay,  my  dearie.    At  night;   when  it's  dark." 

"When  the  mist  creeps  up,  Agnes,  and  you  can 
see  the  waves  underneath,  —  that 's  like  God's 
spirit,  I  think.  I  mean  the  mist  is." 

The  old  woman  nodded.  "Yes,  Vi'lett.  Always 
mind  that  whatever  God  does  is  right.  Even  if  it 
hurts,  it 's  right." 

One  day  when  Violett  was  reading  by  the  fire, 
and  Michael  was  at  work  chopping  wood,  Agnes 
came  in,  her  dress  and  her  hair  white  with  snow. 
Shaking  the  melting  flakes  off,  she  sat  down  in 
her  chair,  and  Violett  saw  that  she  was  very 
pale. 


68  VIOLETT 

"What  is  the  matter,  Agnes?"  he  asked,  tak 
ing  her  hard  hand  in  his. 

"Naught,  Vi'lett.    Night  is  coming,  that 's  a' !  " 

The  child  looked  up  at  the  big  clock  in  the  cor 
ner.  "Ay.  It's  nearly  five  o'clock.  Were  you 
out?" 

"I  was  on  the  cliff.  There  is  darkness  on  the 
face  of  the  waters." 

She  spoke  very  quietly,  but  he  was  awed. 

"Agnes,  I  am  reading  such  a  nice  book,"  he 
said.  "Shall  I  tell  you  about  it?  " 

The  old  woman  paused  a  moment  before  reply 
ing,  and  then  said  suddenly,  "Yes.  Read  to  me, 
dearie." 

And  Violet  read :  — 

"  The  sun's  rim  dips, 
The  stars  rush  out, 
At  one  stride  conies  the  dark ; 
With  far-heard  whisper  in  the  sea 
Off  shot  the  phantom  bark." 

The  old  woman  listened  eagerly,  at  times  hold 
ing  up  her  hand  and  making  him  re-read  a  line  or 
a  stanza  that  pleased  her.  Once  it  was  — 


"  So  lonely  't  was,  that  God  himself 
Scarce  seemed  there  to  be." 


Again :  — 


"  Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone  ; 
Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea." 


VIOLETT  69 

Violett  repeated  the  words  slowly,  proud  of 
having  interested  Agnes,  happy  at  seeing  the  con 
traction  of  pain  smooth  from  her  dear  face. 

"'  Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone'!  "  The  musical 
beauty  of  the  phrase  held  a  great  charm  for  both 
the  old  woman  and  the  child. 

They  both  knew  loneliness,  and  here  it  was  put 
into  words  in  a  way  that  brought  the  feeling  back 
to  them,  although  they  sat  close  together  by  the 
friendly  fire. 

"Agnes,"  Violett  laid  down  the  book  and  leaned 
his  chin  in  his  hands,  "I  am  not  lonely  really,  I 
suppose,  but  I  feel  lonely  in  my  inside." 

"That's  where  loneliness  is,  Vi'lett, — I  be 
here  on  t'  island  for  fifty  years,  and  I  never  was 
alone  until  —  now." 

"And  why  are  you  now?" 

"Ay,  why?   Because  God  wills  it,  dearie." 

The  child  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  he 
said  slowly,  the  peculiarly  flexible  play  of  his  lips 
distinct  in  the  firelight,  "It's  like  a  great  black 
bird,  Agnes.  First  it  is  high  up  in  the  light,  an' 
then  it  comes  lower  and  lower,  and  its  black  winjjs 

'  O 

shut  out  all  the  rest "  — 

"Yes.    Great  black  wings."    She  rose  suddenly. 

"Now  I  am  going  out,  Vi'lett;  you  bide  here 
by  the  fire." 

The  old  woman  caught  up  her  shawl,  drew  it 


70  VIOLETT 

over  her  head,  and  went  out  into  the  dusk.  Time 
and  time  again  this  happened. 

Violett  grew  accustomed  to  her  restlessness,  and 
with  childhood's  quiet  acceptance  of  the  inexpli 
cable  watched  this  new  phase  of  her  character  in 
silence. 

Often  he  found  her  standing  at  the  edge  of  the 
cliff  gazing  seaward  with  a  strange  expression 
in  her  old  eyes.  He,  too,  loved  the  great  gray 
waters  the  better  when  they  were  tossed  heaven 
wards  by  the  wind,  and  the  heavy  splash  of  the 
breaking  waves  below  gave  him  a  little  shiver  of 
delight. 

Michael's  old  joints  were  stiff  with  rheumatism 
that  winter,  so  that  he  groaned  very  audibly  when 
he  walked.  Agnes 's  youthful  immunity  from  such 
ills  was  a  source  of  something  like  impatience  in 
him,  and  once  when  he  complained  of  their  un 
equal  fates,  the  old  woman  looked  at  him  with  a 
smile  so  beautiful  that  tears  rushed  to  the  watch 
ing  Violett' s  eyes. 

"Yes,  Michael,  thou  be  rheumaticky,  and  I  be 
—  well.  God's  will,  old  man." 

One  night  a  terrible  storm  blew  in  from  the  sea, 
and  Violett  could  not  sleep.  He  was  not  afraid, 
for  he  loved  the  roar  of  the  wind,  but  it  kept  him 
awake,  and  he  lay  warm  in  his  bed,  listening,  as  he 
thought,  to  the  cold  outside. 


VIOLETT  71 

At  dawn  he  heard  a  door  open  quietly,  and 
hushed  footsteps.  Then  it  was  day  and  he  could 
get  up.  Hurrying  into  his  clothes,  the  child  felt 
his  way  to  the  kitchen,  but  no  one  was  there ;  on 
the  hearth  lay  last  night's  ashes.  It  was  still  too 
dark  to  see  the  clock,  so  he  lit  a  candle,  and  climb 
ing  up  On  a  chair,  held  it  close  to  the  brass  face 
of  .the  old  timepiece.  Six  o'clock.  Then  Michael 
or  Agnes  was  up.  The  boy  opened  the  door  and 
looked  into  the  tempestuous  morning. 

It  was  gray,  - —  the  bare  garden,  the  low,  torn 
sky,  the  very  wind.  And  at  the  edge  of  the  cliff 
stood  Agnes. 

Violett  went  across  the  hard  grass  to  her,  but 
she  did  not  hear  him. 

"  '  Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone,'  "  she  said  slowly, 
and  then  again,  "  '  All,  all  alone.' ' 

Her  hands,  close  wrung,  were  pressed  to  her 
breast;  her  eyes  were  closed.  Something  in  her 
face  frightened  the  child. 

"  '  All,  all  alone  ' !  "  He  caught  at  her  arm. 
"No,  no,  Agnes,  not  alone,"  he  cried  anxiously; 
"I  am  here." 

For  a  moment  she  did  not  speak,  while  the  set 
lines  in  her  face  changed  and  softened.  Then, 
opening  her  eyes  very  wide,  and  taking  his  hand 
in  hers,  she  answered  slowly,  "Ay,  Vi'lett,  thou  'rt 
right.  Not  all  alone.  God  is  there  —  his  spirit  on 


72  VIOLETT 

the  face  of  the  waters  —  and  thou  —  Now,  dearie, 
lead  me  back  to  the  house,  for  I  cannot  see.  I  am 
blind." 

Violett  learned  a  great  deal  that  winter;  he 
learned  to  do  all  those  things  that  Agnes  could 
no  longer  do.  He  learned  to  make  bread  —  all 
but  the  mixing  and  kneading;  he  it  was  who  mea 
sured  and  sifted  the  flour,  prepared  the  yeast,  and 
when  Agnes  had  done  her  part,  he  put  the  dough 
into  the  pans,  and  he  it  was  who  decided  when  the 
baking  was  complete.  He  mended  socks  and  gar 
ments,  grotesquely  at  first,  and  then  —  for  he  was 
deft-fingered  —  neatly  enough.  He  scrubbed  the 
floors  and  built  the  fires,  and  between  times  he 
read  poetry  to  the  blind  woman,  whom  he  hardly 
pitied,  for  she  never  pitied  herself. 

The  days  passed.  Michael's  joints  unstiffened, 
as  did  the  lumpy  earth  in  the  garden,  and  Violett 's 
arms  and  legs  were  too  long  for  his  clothes,  and  the 
water  grew  blue,  and  the  sun  yellow,  and  birds 
sang. 

Spring  had  come  down  that  way. 


XIV 

THERE  are  days  in  childhood  that  are  full  to  the 
brim  of  splendor, —  days  when  the  sky  is  as  blue  as 
a  great  flower,  and  the  air  as  fragrant  as  if  it  were 
indeed  a  giant  violet  bending  over  the  green  earth ; 
days  when  one  is  so  happy  that  one's  voice  thrills 
like  a  bird,  and  one  must  turn  somersaults  and 
sing  loudly,  and  hug  the  people  one  loves,  and  even 
these  delightful  methods  of  expression  prove  in 
adequate. 

Such  a  day  was  the  twentieth  of  June  to  Vio- 
lett.  He  rose  early,  and  after  helping  Agnes  make 
an  unnaturally  exquisite  breakfast,  ate  his  share 
with  a  face  so  brilliant  with  delight  that  even  old 
Michael  noticed  it,  and  asked  him  what  was  the 
matter. 

"Nothing,  Michael,"  the  boy  answered,  his 
voice  vibrating,  "I  am  just  so  glad  about  —  about 
everything." 

"Glad  Mrs.  Patch  is  away,  dearie,  and  you 
don't  have  to  go  for  a  lesson?  " 

Agnes  smiled  gently  at  him ;  she  fully  sympa 
thized  with  his  dislike  of  his  music  lessons. 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  that,  Agnes.  It's  just 
everything,  you  know." 


74  VIOLETT 

"You  're  a  good  boy,  Vi'lett,"  Michael  said, 
as  he  rose  from  the  table,  laying  his  hand  on  the 
child's  shoulder. 

Violett  rested  his  cheek  against  the  hand  that 
loved  him. 

After  breakfast,  when  the  dishes  were  washed 
and  the  kitchen  set  in  order,  he  ran  down  the  path 
to  the  beach,  and  flinging  himself  upon  his  back, 
kicked  his  long  legs  joyfully  in  the  air  until  he 
was  too  tired  to  move,  and  lay  in  a  delicious  fa 
tigue,  listening  to  the  clear  sound  of  the  little 
waves  breaking  on  the  sand. 

And  suddenly  all  the  Adamses  came  and  sat  down 
beside  him.  He  had  not  seen  them  for  months; 
he  had  not  thought  of  them,  but  they  were  too  kind 
to  reproach  him.  Every  one  was  kind,  that  day, 
just  as  everything  was  beautiful.  They  had  not 
changed,  they  had  not  grown,  they  were  just  as 
they  had  always  been,  and  he  loved  them. 

"Do  you  hear  the  waves?"  he  asked  them. 
"Do  you  hear  the  lovely  green  sound?  " 

And  they  heard.  He  sang  them  the  Song  of  the 
Sea,  and  they  could  hear  it  in  the  measured  beat 
of  the  waves  at  their  feet.  They  were  very  intelli 
gent  and  sympathetic,  the  Adamses. 

At  length  it  grew  so  warm  that  they  all  decided 
to  go  in  swimming,  and  undressed  hastily,  —  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Adams  and  all  the  rest,  and  Violett. 


VIOLETT  75 

The  water  was  cool,  but  smooth  and  delicious,  and 
they  licked  their  chins  to  taste  the  salt. 

Then,  suddenly,  came  a  splendid  idea  to  them : 
they  would  swim  around  the  island.  And  they  did 
it,  pausing  now  and  then  to  rest  on  a  rock  —  for 
Violett  dared  not,  for  fear  of  cramp,  overtire 
himself  —  or  on  a  spit  of  sand,  but  proud  of  their 
strength  and  the  speed  of  their  progress  through 
the  water.  Sophia,  as  the  youngest,  swam  by 
Violett,  who  helped  her  now  and  then,  and  gave 
her  little  short  orders,  such  as  "  Look  out  for  that 
rock,  Sophia,"  or  called  to  her,  "Tell  me  when 
you  're  tired,  dear." 

At  last  the  party  reached  the  rocks  below  the 
Cradle,  and  climbed  carefully  up  over  the  slippery 
spikes  between  them  and  it.  Then,  with  a  sigh  of 
content,  they  rested. 

Bob  Venn,  drawing  near  in  his  boat,  shaded  his 
eyes  with  his  broad  hand.  "What 's  that  on  they 
rocks?"  he  asked.  "Looks  like" 

His  companion,  Mr.  Barton,  the  lawyer,  turned. 
"The  sun  is  blinding  —  it  looks  like  a  dog.  Have 
they  a  white  dog  on  the  island? " 

Venn  burst  into  a  loud  laugh,  and  swung  his 
boat  to  the  right. 

"It's  Vi'lett,  Mr.  Barton  — the  lad  himself, 
an'  naked  as  he  coom  into  the  world! " 


76  VIOLETT 

Violett,  seeing  the  boat,  rose  and  stood  at  the 
edge  of  the  Cradle.  "Bob!  Bob  Venn!  It's  me! 
Stop,  an'  I  '11  swim  out  to  'ee !  " 

Venn  hesitated.  "Better  send  him  back  to  t' 
house,  eh,  Mr.  Barton  ?  You  '11  want  to  see  old 
Michael?  " 

Barton  shook  his  head.  "Indeed  I  do  not  want 
to  see  old  Michael,  nor  his  wrong-headed  wife. 
Let  the  boy  swim  to  us,  Venn." 

So  Violett  scrambled  down  to  the  water  and 
struck  out,  laughing,  towards  the  boat.  Venn 
dragged  him  over  the  gunwale. 

"Here's  Mr.  Barton,  Vi'lett.  He  wants  to  see 
you." 

Violett  pushed  the  over-long  hair  out  of  his  face, 
and  turned,  his  under  lip  pushed  out  thoughtfully. 

"Mr.  Barton?" 

"Yes.  I — you  don't  remember  me,  Violett, 
but  I  —  I  am  your  man  of  business." 

"Oh!  "  The  boy  had  remembered,  and  the  sky 
had  lost  its  blue. 

"  1  'm  cold,  Bob.  Give  me  something  to  wrap 
up  in." 

Venn  gave  him  his  coat,  and  a  minute  later 
Barton  was  explaining  carefully,  —  choosing  his 
words.  He  was  a  kind  man,  and  the  look  in 
Violett' s  eyes  hurt  him. 

"Then — .you   mean,"  the  boy  said  at  length, 


VIOLETT  77 

drawing  Venn's  coat  closer  over  his  breast,  "that 
I  have  <£10,000,  and  you  think  I  ought  to  —  take 
it?" 

"No,  no,  not  take  it.    But  you  are  —  how  old?  " 

"I  am  eleven." 

"Just  so.  And  you  are  not  at  school.  You 
ought  to  learn  something.  Your  father  was  an 
educated  man  " 

"I  am  learning  —  I  am  learning  music."  The 
boy  turned  away.  Then  after  a  long  pause  he  let 
the  others  see  his  face  again. 

"  Mr.    Barton  —  I   never    quite    understood  — 
please  tell  me.   It  —  the  money  —  was  —  Alice's  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"And  it  is  mine  now?" 

"Yes.  Your  cousin  was  the  only  child  of  her 
dead  parents,  —  there  is  no  one  but  you.  You  are 
the  last  Maule." 

"And  I  ought  to  go  to  school,  Mr.  Barton? 
I  can't  go  to  school.  The  —  the  others  won't  have 
me.  They  won't  play  with  me,  — they  can't,  you 
see,  because  my  father  "  —  He  broke  off  short. 

Barton  was  touched.  "I  know.  But  there  are 
other  schools,  where  —  they  would  not  know  — 
and  you  could  learn  —  It  is  very  sad,  the  whole 
story,  but  you  are  young,  and  when  all  is  said  and 
done,  the  money  is  yours." 

Violett  hesitated.    He  could  go  away  and  learn ; 


78  VIOLETT 

people  would  not  know;  other  boys  would  play 
with  him  — 

Then  Bob  Venn  said,  drawing  in  his  oars  with 
a  loud  noise,  "Vi'lett,  lad,  you  can't  touch  that 
money.  You  can't!  It's  blood-money!" 

And  Barton  protested  in  vain. 

Violett  saw  suddenly,  as  clearly  as  he  saw  the 
sun  on  the  water,  that  he  could  never  touch  the 
money.  And  his  shame  rose  up  again  and  over 
whelmed  him. 

"No,  I  can't  take  it!  I  can't!  I  mustn't  go 
to  school!  I  mustn't  learn!  Other  boys" —  He 
flung  off  the  coat,  rose,  stood  a  minute  at  the  edge 
of  the  boat,  and  then  without  another  word  jumped 
overboard,  and  swam  off. 

Barton  blew  his  nose  angrily.  "You  are  a  fool, 
Venn!  A  meddling,  harmful  fool!  " 

"A  fool  I  may  be,  but  I  weren't  harmful,  Mr. 
Barton.  I  was  right.  He  must  bear  his  burden 
—  we  has  all  a  burden  —  and  no  man  can  help 
him,  but  clean  hands  is  stronger  than  dirty 
ones ! " 

Violett  swam  slowly  back  to  the  beach.  The 
Adamses  were  gone.  Everything  was  gone.  He 
was  cold,  and  his  soul  ached. 

He  was  the  boy  whose  father  had  been  hanged ; 
and  he  must  always  be  that  boy.  Some  day  he 
would  be  the  man  whose  father  had  been  hanged. 


VIOLETT  79 

Only  the  Adamses  loved  him,  and  they,  he  told 
himself  with  mournful  truth,  were  not  real  people. 
Minnie  Bayne  did  not  love  him ;  she  loved  a  boy 
who  was  not  a  real  boy,  —  she  loved  Stevie  Adams, 
and  he  was  Violett  Maule. 


XV 

"VI'LETT!" 

Violett  looked  up.  Venn  had  rowed  in  near  to 
the  beach,  and  sat  smiling  at  him. 

"Hello,  Bob!" 

It  was  July  now,  and  Violett  was  reading  in  the 
shade  of  a  rock. 

Venn's  face  was  full  of  mystery.  "Come,"  he 
said,  "undress  and  swim  out  to  me,  Vi'lett.  I  be 
come  to  fetch  'ee." 

Violett  rolled  up  his  trousers  to  his  hips,  and 
waded  out.  "To  fetch  me?"  he  asked,  his  small, 
dark  face  aglow,  as  he  stepped  into  the  boat. 

"Yes,  Vi'lett.    Sea-Urchin  is  let  again." 

The  boy's  eyes  darkened.  "Is  it?"  he  asked, 
with  an  indifference  that  struck  Venn  as  pathetic. 

"Yes.    It 's  they  Baynes,  Vi'lett." 

"Oh!" 

"Yes.  I  met  the  man  an'  the  little  gal,  and 
they  asked  me  where  you  be.  They  called  you  "  — 

"I  know,  Bob,  —  '  Stevie  Adams.' '  There  was 
a  lump  in  the  boy's  throat.  "They  —  think  that 's 
my  name.  Bob,  did  they  want  to  see  me?  " 

"Ay,  that  they  did.  And  here  be  I  come  to 
fetch  'ee." 

The  boat  turned  the  corner  of  the  island,  and 


VIOLETT  81 

on  the  long  narrow  beach  on  the  mainland  two 
figures  were  to  be  seen. 

"I  told  'em,"  Venn  went  on  almost  fiercely, 
"  that  you  're  a  good  boy,  Stevie  Adams,  and  that 
I  '11  bring  'ee  every  day  and  fetch  'ee  in  t'  even 
ing —  me  or  mother.  The  name  don't  make  any 
difference,  Vi'lett.  Folks  is  fools  that  'd  blame 
'ee  for  —  for  that.  You  didn't  do  it,  an'  you  be 
a  good  boy.  Never  mind  about  t'  name.  Let  them 
call  you  Stevie  Adams." 

"But,  Bob,  I  am  bigger  now  —  and  it  is  a  lie." 

Bob  slowly  uttered  an  oath,  that  was  not  regis 
tered  against  him. 

"Some  lies  is  better  than  some  truths,  Vi'lett. 
Thou 's  Stevie  Adams  to  them,  an'  God  won't 
mind.  Here  we  be." 

The  boat  had  reached  the  beach,  and  just  out  of 
reach  of  the  waves  stood  Minnie  Bayne  and  her 
father. 

The  minute  he  had  joined  them  and  kissed  Min 
nie,  Violett  forgot  all  about  his  name,  and  became 
almost  drunk  with  joy.  Bayne,  who  looked  worse 
than  he  had  the  year  before,  and  was  very  hoarse, 
was  kind  and  cordial  to  the  boy,  and  Minnie,  in  a 
rose-covered  hat,  angelic. 

Bayne  sat  down  under  an  umbrella,  and  with  a 
word  of  warning  to  Violett  not  to  let  Minnie  get 
wet,  went  to  sleep,  leaving  the  whole  world  empty 


82  VIOLETT 

but  for  the  two  children.  They  looked  at  each 
other,  soberly  shy,  and  Minnie  told  the  events  of 
the  past  year. 

She  had  been  on  tour,  and  had  several  new 
"  acts  "  which  were  greatly  admired.  Her  mother 
had  sung  at  the  "Crown  Prince,"  and  had  a  new 
silver  gown.  Father  had  been  ill,  and  once  in  the 
middle  of  a  song  his  voice  had  suddenly  given 
out.  It  was  very  dreadful,  but  he  was  better  now. 
Stevie  had  grown. 

Yiolett  listened  a  little  absently.  The  perfect 
beauty  of  Minnie  dazed  him.  Her  lips  were  redder 
than  ever,  her  skin  whiter,  her  hair  longer,  and 
the  shadows  about  her  eyes  deeper.  She  had  not 
grown,  but  she  was  thinner,  and  he  thought  that 
a  fat  angel  would  be  a  horrid  anachronism. 

He  was  so  happy  that  from  time  to  time  a  shiver 
crept  over  him.  Only  one  thing  distressed  him,  — 
the  lie  about  his  name.  If  she  only  knew!  She 
was  so  good,  so  perfect,  she  surely  would  not 
mind.  /She  would  know  that  it  was  not  his  fault. 

And  then  he  would  be  happy  —  perfectly  happy ! 
The  year  before  he  had  not  minded,  it  had  hardly 
seemed  a  lie  to  him  ;  but  now  he  knew  better,  and 
there  was  a  spot  on  the  sun  of  his  bliss. 

"Minnie,"  he  began  suddenly,  "there  is  a  boy 
who  lives  near  here  whose  —  whose  father  —  was 
hanged." 


VIOLETT  83 

Minnie  nodded.  "I  know.  Some  one  told 
mother.  They  thought  you  were  the  boy.  Wi- 
diculous!  Ma  said  her  daughter  don't  play  with 
caviminal's  children." 

"Wouldn't  your  mother  let  you  play  with  a  — 
a  caviminal's  child?" 

Violett  had  never  heard  the  word  "  criminal " 
in  his  life. 

"Not  me!"  Miss  Bayne  rose  and  shook  her 
curls  with  a  new  air.  "Ma  says  we  're  poor,  but 
we're  artists,  and  —  I  couldn't  play  with  that 
boy.  I  'd  be  afraid." 

Violett's  heart  sank.  "He  would  n't  hurt  you, 
Minnie,"  he  faltered. 

"  Oh,  never  mind  that  awful  ca-veature,  Stevie, 
let 's  run  to  the  rocks." 

And  they  raced  to  the  rocks,  and  she  won  and 
was  happy. 

Bayne  asked  Violett  to  go  to  Sea-Urchin  Cot 
tage  with  them  for  dinner;  and  as  Bob  Venn  had 
promised  to  tell  Agnes  where  he  was,  the  boy  ac 
cepted  gratefully,  and  the  three  waded  down  the 
sandy  road  under  a  blazing  sun,  tired  and  silent. 

The  senora,  most  lovely  in  a  peacock  blue  plush 
garment,  was  very  gracious.  Since  her  success  in 
the  London  Halls  her  manner  had  become  a  trifle 
more  magnificent,  but  as  she  explained  to  Violett, 
a  friend  is  a  friend,  be  'e  never  so  'umble. 


84  VIOLETT 

At  dinner  she  drank  beer,  and  under  its  enliv 
ening  effects  became  most  motherly,  and  cried  as 
she  told  Violett  that  she  too  had  once  had  a  boy, 
—  her  hangel  Reginald.  Violett  looked  like  her 
hangel  Reginald,  it  appeared,  and  sharper  than  a 
serpent's  tooth  — 

Bayne  laughed  shortly  at  this  point,  which  Vio 
lett  thought  disagreeable. 

Minnie  ate  quietly  during  the  ensuing  discus 
sion.  She  seemed  used  to  tears  on  her  mother's 
part  and  disgusted  shrugs  on  her  father's. 

After  dinner,  as  the  two  children  sat  in  the  gar 
den  eating  apples,  Violett  asked  suddenly,  "Min 
nie,  why  was  your  father  so  cross?" 

"I  don't  know.    He  's  often  cross." 

"But  —  the  senora  was  so  —  so  beautiful !  " 

Minnie  laughed.  "How  funny  you  are,  Stevie! 
Ma  always  talks  about  my  brother  when  she  's  been 
drinking  beer.  His  name  was  Sam." 

And  all  these  things  Violett  pondered,  —  on 
Minnie,  on  the  senora,  and  on  Bayne.  He  loved 
the  senora,  for  she  knew,  as  he  believed,  his  real 
name  and  yet  was  kind  to  him.  He  loved  Minnie 
because  she  was  Minnie  and  he  was  Violett. 

Bayne,  with  his  hoarse  voice  and  sarcastic 
speeches  to  the  splendid  senora,  the  boy  had  al 
ways  been  half  afraid  of;  and  this  year  scenes  and 
quarrels  between  the  man  and  his  wife  were  so 


VIOLETT  85 

frequent  and  so  hideous  to  the  gentle  child,  that 
his  mild  dislike  for  Bayne  grew  to  something  ap 
proaching  hatred.  For  if  they  quarreled,  it  was  of 
course  not  the  senora's  fault,  but  Bayne's.  It  was 
even  in  some  curious  way  his  fault  when  his  wife 
scolded  him  because  he  had  lost  his  voice  and  could 
no  longer  sing. 

Children  are  not  logical,  and  the  senora  having 
won  Violett's  heart  through  her  lazy  kindness  and 
what  he  believed  to  be  her  beauty,  he  unreservedly 
took  sides  with  her  in  her  quarrels  with  her  hus 
band.  He  was  even  perfectly  sure  that  if  by  any 
evil  chance  Bayne  should  learn  that  he  was  the 
boy  whose  father  was  hanged,  Minnie  would  no 
longer  be  allowed  to  play  with  him. 

One  evening  when  the  children  had  been  playing 
on  the  beach,  it  began  to  rain,  and  they  went  to  the 
cottage.  The  house  door  was  open,  and  they  entered 
hand  in  hand,  without  knocking.  On  the  thresh 
old  they  stood  still,  Minnie  with  a  little  shrug  of 
disgust,  Violett  with  a  terror  that  stiffened  his 
muscles  to  stone. 

Bayne  held  his  wife  by  the  shoulders,  and  was 
silently  shaking  her  with  all  his  force,  —  her  big 
body,  in  its  loose,  dingy  gown,  helpless  in  his 
grasp. 

Violett  saw  his  face  and  uttered  a  little  cry; 
then  as  the  man  turned,  the  boy  jumped  forward 


86  VIOLETT 

and  caught  his  arm.  "Let  go!  "he  screamed; 
"let  go!  You  are  Idlling  her!  " 

Bayne  laughed.  "  You  let  go,  you  little  fool! 
Clear  out!" 

The  senora  sobbed  out  something  unintelligible ; 
and  feeling  his  helplessness,  Violett  dropped  the 
thin  arm  he  was  clutching,  and  doubling  up  his 
hand,  struck  the  man  with  all  his  force.  Bayne  let 
go,  and  with  a  gurgling  laugh  the  seuora  stumbled 
to  her  knees,  swayed  a  minute,  and  then  fell  face 
downward  to  the  floor,  where  she  lay  motionless. 

Bayne  looked  at  her  for  a  minute,  a  frown  of 
pain  on  his  pale  forehead. 

"Minnie  !  Minnie  ! "  stammered  Violett, 
"She  's  dead!  He  's  killed  her!  " 

Then  Bayne  laughed  aloud,  and  Violett,  turning, 
saw  Minnie's  small  face  and  shoulders  expressing 
a  mild  disgust. 

"She  's  not  dead,  Stevie,"  the  man  said  gently. 
"And  —  you  needn't  have  struck  me  in  the 
wind!" 

Violett  shuddered.  "I  —  am  sorry,"  Mr.  Bayne, 
only "  —  He  looked  a  little  wildly  around,  and 
then  at  the  inert  woman  on  the  floor. 

"Mrs.  Bayne  is  all  right;  you  needn't  worry. 
She  —  has  been  drinking,  that's  all." 

And  the  mighty  disgust  that  lies  in  most  men 
for  the  woman  who  has  been  drinking  sent  a  hot, 


VIOLETT  87 

sickening  flush  up  the  boy's  face,  and  he  drew 
back  towards  the  door. 

Minnie  took  a  red  silk  pillow  from  the  sofa,  and 
kneeling  by  her  mother  raised  her  head  and  shoved 
the  pillow  under  it.  Then  she  rose  and  left  the 
room  without  speaking. 

Outside,  the  rain  fell  heavily;  it  was  almost 
dark  in  the  small  room.  Bayne  sat  down  and 
leaned  his  head  on  his  pale  hands. 

Suddenly  Violett  sobbed. 

"And  I  struck  you  —  in  the  wind!  " 

The  man  gave  a  short  laugh.  "You  did  indeed, 
but  never  mind.  I  'm  only  sorry  that  you  came 
in." 

Violett  went  close  to  him. 

"Mr.  Bayne  —  I  —  I  must  tell  you.  My  name 
is  Violett  Maule;  I  am  the  boy  whose  father  was 
hung." 

Bayne  looked  up.  "  I  know,  Stevie  —  I '  ve  al 
ways  known.  Don't  you  tell  —  them,  though." 

The  boy  could  not  speak  for  a  minute,  and  then, 
stooping,  he  kissed  Bayne's  thin  hand. 

"You  knew?   And  you  did  n't  mind?  " 

"Not  I.  You  ain't  to  blame.  But  don't  tell 
them." 

" She  —  I  mean  —  the  senora  knows." 

"  Dooloars  knows? "  Bayne  shook  his  head. 
"No,  she  don't  —  nor  Min." 


88  VIOLETT 

This  was  such  a  surprise  that  Violett  hardly 
knew  how  to  readjust  his  ideas.  So  it  was  Bayne 
who  knew  and  did  not  mind,  and  the  senora,  who 
was  disgusting,  did  not  know. 

And  he  had  hurt  Bayne.  He  bent  again  and 
kissed  Bayne's  hand,  his  eyes  full  of  tears. 

"Please  forgive  me,"  he  murmured,  and  then 
rushed  out  into  the  rain. 


XVI 

DURING  the  long  months  when  Sea-Urchin  Cot 
tage  was  vacant,  Violett's  music  lessons  took  place 
at  the  rectory,  in  the  old  schoolroom  where  Rose 
Carstairs  had  passed  so  much  of  her  solitary  child 
hood. 

The  piano,  a  very  ancient  and  unmelodious  one, 
stood  between  two  seaward -looking  windows,  and 
it  was  very  hard  for  the  boy  to  fix  his  mind  on  the 
unsympathetic  subject  of  counting  while  the  sea 
yonder  seemed  to  call  to  him. 

Rose  Carstairs  often  came  in  and  sat  listening, 
and  on  these  occasions  the  work  went  better.  There 
was  between  the  young  girl  and  the  little  boy  one 
of  those  beautiful  understandings  that  sometimes 
grow  up  between  two  people  destined  to  be  misun 
derstood  by  the  world.  Violett,  always  ready  to 
love  as  he  was,  felt  instinctively  that  the  quiet- 
eyed  lady  listened  to  him  with  her  heart. 

And  on  the  days  when  the  rector  bade  his  pro 
tege  come  into  the  drawing-room  and  give  a  mod 
est  exhibition  of  his  musical  accomplishments  on 
the  splendid  old  Erard,  the  child  involuntarily 
tried  to  forget  the  uninspiring  presence  of  his 
pompous  benefactor,  and  to  play  exclusively  to 
Miss  Rose. 


90  VIOLETT 

"Now,  Violett,  show  me  what  progress  you  have 
made  since  I  last  heard  you  play,"  Mr.  Winnock 
would  say,  and  Violett,  telling  himself  seriously, 
with  mental  pressure,  so  to  say,  "He  is  not  here; 
only  Miss  Rose  and  me  are  here,"  would  begin. 

First,  with  a  curiously  grim  face  and  deep  lines 
of  determination  about  his  mouth,  he  played  his 
scales  —  usually  badly.  Then  he  played  a  "  mor- 
ceau."  His  morceaux  were  usually  the  epitome  of 
vulgarity  in  composition,  and  he  hated  them.  They, 
too,  went  clumsily,  impatiently.  After  them  came  a 
short  pause,  while  the  rector  admired  the  morceau, 
and  mildly  regretted  the  inadequacy  of  its  inter 
pretation,  and  Rose  went  on  sewing,  a  smile  on 
her  lips. 

"Now,  Violett,  play  to  us,"  the  girl  always 
said,  at  length,  and  Violett  would  play.  He 
played  all  sorts  of  things,  —  French  nursery  songs 
reluctantly  played  to  him  by  Mouchette  and  turned 
into  exquisite  works  of  art  by  his  sense  of  har 
mony,  scraps  of  things  Bayne  had  played  him, 
songs  that  Bob  Venn  sang  as  his  boat  flew  across 
the  water,  old  lullabies  that  Agnes  had  crooned 
to  him,  hymns.  Then  he  caricatured,  a  gleam  in 
his  eyes,  the  things  he  had  played,  turning  "  Au 
Clair  de  la  Lune  "  to  a  waltz,  and  "  Malbrouck  " 
to  a  minor  dirge.  These  things  delighted  the 
rector,  and  Rose  listened  patiently. 


VIOLETT  91 

Usually  it  was  afternoon  when  Violett  made  his 
visit,  and  until  five  the  rector  was  what  he  called 
"busy"  in  his  study  behind  closed  doors. 

Therefore  by  the  time  the  boy  came  to  that  part 
of  his  modest  exposition  that  he  loved,  the  wester 
ing  sun  came  in  at  the  long  windows,  painting 
strange  creeping  shadows  on  the  old  oak  floor, 
drawing  wonderful  tints  from  the  faded  satin  of 
the  furniture,  and  spinning,  like  a  great  golden 
spider,  a  splendid  web  of  reality  and  imagination 
over  the  lovely,  delicately  faded  room. 

And  Violett,  his  thin  legs  hanging  down  from 
the  stool,  his  head  thrown  back,  let  his  hands  lie 
on  the  piano,  while  it  sang  to  him.  This  is  what 
it  seemed  to  the  boy.  And  always,  every  time,  the 
Song  of  the  Sea  came,  and  was  listened  to  rever 
ently,  for  was  it  not  the  first  song  that  had  come 
to  him? 

Years  after,  Rose  Carstairs  wrote  to  a  friend  a 
description  of  one  of  these  afternoons.  "His  face 
was  to  me  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  the  world, 
while  he  played.  His  mouth,  always  innocently 
plaintive,  had  then  something  like  the  shadow  of 
a  smile  on  it,  and  his  big  eyes,  half  closed,  were 
homes  of  melody.  About  the  color  theory,  I  do 
not  know  what  to  say.  It  is  for  me  nonsense,  but 
it  is  a  '  divine  nonsense, '  as  poor  Mouchette  used 
to  say,  and  Violett  believed  in  it  as  you  and  I  do 


92  VIOLETT 

in  the  gospel.  He  thought  he  could  hear  color, 
and  however  that  may  be,  it  is  certain  that  his 
sense  of  hearing  was  marvelously  acute.  And  even 
in  those  days  I  could  half  believe  that  the  piano 
did,  as  he  seriously  insisted,  '  tell  him  things,' 
only  he  should  have  said  '  sang  him  things, '  for 
it  sang  under  his  little  brown  hands  in  a  most 
wonderful  way." 

And  as  the  little  brown  hands  wooed  the  keys, 
the  good  rector  listened,  much  pleased  with  his 
pupil.  Then  Rose  gave  Violett  a  kiss  and  a  cup  of 
tea  with  much  cake,  and  the  boy  went  slowly,  the 
tips  of  his  fingers  still  cool  and  sensitive  to  the 
feeling  of  the  ivory,  to  Bob  Venn's  cottage. 

If  Venn  was  not  at  home,  he  waited,  sitting 
silently  on  the  doorstep,  watching  the  sea  and  lis 
tening  to  Bob's  old  mother  as  she  tripped  about 
the  kitchen  preparing  supper. 

"Well,  Vi'lett,  did  you  play?"  the  big  fisher 
man  invariably  asked,  as  he  took  up  his  oars,  and 
Violett  as  invariably  answered,  "Yes,  Bob,  I 
played." 

The  short  passage  to  the  island  was  usually  a 
silent  one,  and  when  he  had  said  good-night  to 
his  kind  friend,  the  boy  sped  up  the  steps  to  the 
lighthouse,  his  eyes  still  alight  with  the  beauty  of 
music. 


XVII 

THE  summer  when  Violett  was  nearly  thirteen, 
Bayne  came  alone  to  the  island.  The  senora  and 
Minnie  were,  he  told  Yiolett,  at  work  touring,  but 
he  was  too  ill,  and  had  come  again  for  the  sea  air. 
He  was  too  poor  to  go  to  a  hotel  or  an  inn,  and  as 
he  hated  to  be  quite  alone,  he  wanted  to  know 
whether  Violett  would  rent  him  a  room  for  a  small 
sum  for  two  months. 

"I'll  ask  Michael,"  the  boy  answered  eagerly. 
"I  am  sure  they  will." 

Bayne  smiled.  "You  needn't  ask  them,"  he 
said,  "everything  on  the  island  except  the  light 
itself  belongs  to  you." 

But  Violett  asked  Agnes,  nevertheless,  and  she 
agreed  at  once,  glad  to  have  some  one  with  whom 
Violett  could  talk. 

"They  say  that  folks  as  is  blind  from  birth  can 
see  with  their  fingers,  sir,"  she  said,  when  the  boy 
proudly  brought  his  friend  to  her,  "  but  I  cannot. 
You  have  been  kind  to  Vi'lett,  I  know.  Surely 
you  will  never  be  unkind  to  him  or  to  us." 

And  Bayne  promised.  He  was  hoarser  than  ever 
and  thinner,  his  long,  bent  nose  gleaming  with  a 
curious  whiteness  against  the  yellow  of  his  face. 
He  would  never  be  able  to  sing  again,  he  told  Vio- 


94  VIOLETT 

lett,  but  he  hoped  to  get  a  position  as  clown  in  a 
circus. 

"My  voice  will  make  'em  laugh,"  he  said,  with  a 
bitter  smile,  "and  my  legs,  too." 

Violett  had  no  social  prejudice  against  clowns 
as  clowns,  but  he  feared  the  work  would  be  too 
fatiguing  for  his  friend,  and  said  so. 

"No,  no.  Charley  Massey,  the  proprietor,  is  a 
friend  of  mine,  so  I  '11  get  on." 

"  And  —  Minnie  —  and  the  senora  ?  " 

They  were  sitting  together  on  the  little  beach  at 
the  foot  of  the  path,  Bayne  lying  comfortably  in  a 
hole  Violett  had  dug  for  him  in  the  warm  sand. 

"Minnie  's  got  a  voice  and  sings  now;  Dooloars 
is  back  at  the  musical  game.  Minnie  will  get  on, 
—  she  's  very  pretty." 

Day  after  day  the  two  sat  together  in  the  sand, 
and  as  time  went  by,  Violett  told  his  friend  about 
the  Adamses,  about  his  Somedays,  about  the  books 
he  read  in  the  winter.  And  then  Bayne  told  him 
that  people  could  read  in  the  summer,  too,  —  a 
fact  Violett  had  never  realized. 

After  that,  the  future  clown  led  the  blind  wo 
man  every  day  down  the  path,  and  Violett  read 
aloud  to  them. 

Agnes  liked  the  man,  and  was  happy  that  he 
liked  Violett.  Bayne's  light  eyes,  with  their  look 
of  pain,  used  to  study  the  old  woman's  quiet  face 


VIOLETT  95 

as  she  listened  to  the  boy's  voice,  and  the  bitter 
lines  about  his  mouth  smoothed  away. 

"I  am  happy  here,"  he  said  one  day,  as  Vio- 
lett  ran  up  the  path  for  a  drink  of  water. 

"  Yes ;  there  's  God's  quiet  here,"  the  old  woman 
returned. 

"I  don't  believe  in  God,  Agnes." 

"Poor  man,  poor  man!  " 

Bayne  looked  at  her.  "Why  don't  you  ask  me 
not  to  put  such  ideas  into  Violett's  head?" 

She  laughed.  "No,  no.  I 'm  not  afraid  of  that, 
Mr.  Bayne.  You  're  not  a  bad  man." 

The  summer  was  a  golden  one,  full  of  still 
mornings  and  long,  fragrant  afternoons.  Bayne 
grew  stronger,  and  even  went  in  swimming  once 
or  twice. 

One  evening  when  he  and  Violett  were  alone, 
the  man  began,  with  something  in  his  voice  that 
caused  Violett  to  look  at  him  quickly,  "Violett, 
did  you  ever  hear  of  the  Goths?" 

No,  Violett  did  not  know  whether  they  were 
people  or  things. 

"They  were  a  people,  a  great  people,"  Bayne 
went  on.  "They  conquered  Italy  and  Borne  and 
—  they  were  heroes.  Big  blond  brave  men,  Vio 
lett,  who  were  never  hoarse  and  never  tired  — 
they  were  heroes." 

"Oh,  tell  me  about  them." 


96  VIOLETT 

"  Yes.  Well,  —  I  am  writing  a  play  about 
them,  Violett,  and  —  I  will  read  it  to  you."  There 
was  a  curious  proud  timidity  in  his  manner,  as  of 
one  who  is  used  to  being  laughed  at. 

Violett  was  enchanted,  interested,  full  of  con 
fidence,  the  best  listener  one  could  wish.  Bayne 
read  the  play  himself,  lingering  over  the  places  he 
considered  good,  explaining  the  merits,  deprecat 
ing  the  faults. 

He  had  chosen  Totila,  the  blond  king,  as  his 
hero,  beginning  with  his  coronation  and  ending  — 
the  end  was  merely  blocked  out  —  with  his  burial 
in  Numa  Pompilius's  tomb.  The  play  was  long, 
clumsily  constructed,  and  halting,  but  full  of  rough 
poetry,  and  written  in  a  spirit  of  adoration  for  the 
beautiful,  successful,  betrayed  hero  that  touched 
Violett,  he  did  not  know  why. 

Bayne  had  once  hoped  to  play  the  role  of  the 
king  himself,  but  long  ago  he  had  given  up  the 
idea,  and  now  his  wish  was  to  finish  the  play  and 
sell  it  to  Arthur  Wauchope,  the  great  actor-man 
ager. 

"It  is  sure  to  be  a  hit,"  Bayne  said  confidently, 
and  Violett  believed  him. 

After  that  evening,  Bayne  wrote  every  day  for 
an  hour  or  more,  and  then  read  aloud  what  he  had 
accomplished.  It  was  a  happy  time,  and  when 
Bayne  went  away,  bearing  a  shy  greeting  to  Min- 


VIOLETT  97 

nie  from  Violett,  he  promised  to  come  back  the 
next  summer. 

The  next  summer  Violett  waited  eagerly  all 
through  June,  July,  and  August,  but  no  one  came, 
and  no  letter.  Only  early  in  September  a  big 
package  of  books,  —  "Rob  Roy,"  "The  Scottish 
Chiefs,"  "Pendennis,"  "Oliver  Twist,"  "King 
Lear,"  and  Keats 's  poems. 

All  through  the  autumn  and  winter  the  boy  stud 
ied  his  new  books,  learning  pages  by  heart,  read 
ing  aloud  to  Agnes,  shedding  understanding  tears 
over  poor  little  Oliver,  and  following,  with  the  un- 
resentful  sorrow  with  which  he  met  his  own  wrongs, 
the  history  of  the  poor  old  king.  There  was  a  mel 
ody  that  came  to  him  whenever  he  read  Lear,  that 
grew  to  be  the  expression  of  the  old  man's  tragedy 
to  him  and  to  Rose  Carstairs. 

One  day,  when  he  had  been  playing  it  to  the 
young  girl,  she  said  to  him  suddenly,  "Violett, 
some  one  is  coming  here  to-morrow.  It  is  Son- 
nenthal,  the  great  pianist.  You  know,  I  told  you 
about  him." 

The  boy  nodded.  "I  remember  —  the  little  man 
with  the  big  soul,  the  one  you  love." 

She  started. 

"Oh,  Violett!   How  do  you  know? " 

"  I  know.  Is  he  coming  here  ?  Then  that  is  why 
you  are  so  happy." 


98  VIOLETT 

Kose  bent  and  kissed  him.  "Yes,  he  is  coming. 
And  he  will  play.  Only  —  you  mustn't  say  that 
I  love  him." 

"Very  well,  I  won't,  if  you  don't,"  he  answered. 

It  was  a  pity  that  no  one  was  there  to  see  the 
beauty  of  her  eyes  as  she  answered  loyally,  "I 
do,  Violett,  but  you  must  n't  say  it.  Oh,  yes,  I 
do!"  After  a  moment  she  added,  her  hand  on  the 
boy's  shoulder,  "You  must  come  some  afternoon 
and  hear  him  play.  He  will  help  you  to  —  hear 
mwsic." 

"No  one  can  help  me.  I  must  just  wait,"  he  re 
turned,  his  arms  folded,  his  heavy  brows  drawn 
down  over  his  eyes. 

A  phrase  from  the  "Imitation"  came  into  the 
girl's  head  as  she  watched  him:  "Speak,  Lord, 
for  thy  servant  heareth." 

The  boy's  attitude  of  patient  receptiveness 
struck  her  as  it  had  never  done.  He  was  a  cup 
held  reverently  for  the  heavens  to  fill. 

A  day  or  two  later,  Violett  was  shown  into  the 
drawing-room  at  the  rectory,  to  find  Sonnenthal  at 
the  piano,  playing.  Miss  Carstairs  did  not  see  the 
child,  nor  did  the  great  man.  Violett  stood  in  the 
doorway,  and  as  the  music  went  on,  he  dropped  to 
the  rug  in  his  favorite  cross-legged  attitude.  The 
little  man  at  the  piano,  with  his  large  nose  and  in 
digo  chin,  disappeared;  Hose,  with  her  closed  eyes, 


VIOLETT  99 

melted  away;  there  was  no  room,  no  piano,  no 
thing  but  a  forest,  in  the  centre  of  which  a  great 
soft  cataract  tumbled  over  smooth,  mossy  stones; 
and  on  the  edge  of  the  pool  into  which  it  fell, 
ferns  and  forget-me-nots  grew. 

And  then  the  river  flowed  on,  through  lush 
green  fields,  under  a  blue  sky,  under  brown  bridges 
where  the  shadows  were  deep,  on  and  on  to  the 
sea;  and  when  it  had  reached  the  sea  nestled  into 
its  endless  waters  as  softly  as  a  baby  into  its  warm 
bed.  Then  that  was  the  end,  and  Violett  remem 
bered,  in  the  bareness  of  the  silence,  that  he  had 
been  hearing  music. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Kose  Carstairs,  very  gently. 
The  man  with  the  blue  chin  rose  and  came  to  her. 

"It  was  beautiful?"  he  asked,  "beautiful?" 

"Rose,"  he  went  on,  taking  her  hand  and  hold 
ing  it  in  his,  "I  love  you." 

She  did  not  speak,  but  she  looked  up. 

"And  you  —  love  me." 

Then  she  said,  "Yes,  I  have  always  loved  you." 

Violett  listened  most  innocently.  It  was  a  part 
of  the  beauty  of  life,  — her  face  and  the  man's 
voice. 

"If  you  marry  me,"  Sonnenthal  went  on,  still 
holding  her  hands,  "you  will  not  be  happy.  I  am 
not  the  man  to  make  his  wife  happy." 

"I  do  not  ask  to  be  happy,  Felix." 


100  VIOLETT 

"From  that  day,  two  years  ago,  I  have  known 
that  we  loved  each  other,  Rose.  But  I  have  tried 
to  keep  away.  Then  —  the  other  day,  I  could  no 
longer  do  so,  and  I  came.  When  will  you  marry 
me?" 

"  Whenever  you  like." 

He  kissed  her  hands,  and  leaving  her,  went 
hurriedly  to  the  piano  and  began  to  play. 

Violett  listened,  his  eyes  like  silver  lamps  in  the 
dark.  It  was  a  rushing,  overwhelming  music,  this, 
sweeping  away  obstacles,  hurting  people,  hurting  it 
self  ;  it  was  a  flood  or  a  fire.  It  hurt  the  child  too, 
in  some  way  he  did  not  understand.  He  wanted  to 
rush  in  and  rescue  Miss  Eose,  yet  even  then  he 
knew  that  he  could  not,  —  that  she  could  not  be 
helped.  He  rose  to  his  knees,  and  crept  away  into 
the  hall  and  down  into  the  winter  evening. 

The  following  day  Sonnenthal  went  back  to 
London.  "Where  is  your  genius? "he  asked,  as 
Hose  drove  him  to  the  station. 

"Violett?  Ah,  yes  —  he  did  not  come  —  he  is  a 
queer  child! " 


xvni 

VIOLETT  was  at  the  little  church  the  bleak,  dark 
morning  when  Rose  Carstairs  was  married  to  Felix 
Sonnenthal.  The  child  rarely  went  to  church.  It 
was  quite,  three  miles  inland ;  and  since  the  begin 
ning  of  her  blindness  old  Agnes  had  had  such  a 
fear  of  the  water  that  she  had  gradually  given  up 
leaving  the  island,  and  Michael  had  never  been  a 
church-goer. 

So  the  boy  looked  around  the  little  old  building 
with  a  feeling  of  strangeness,  while  he  waited, 
shivering,  for  the  bride  to  come  in. 

Agnes's  simple  piety  and  perfect  familiarity  with 
the  Bible  had  taught  him  most  of  the  best  of  reli 
gion,  but  very  little  of  form.  It  surprised  him  that 
people  should  kneel  in  prayer.  His  instinct  was  to 
stand,  his  body  drawn  to  its  full  height,  his  head 
thrown  back  face  to  face  with  God. 

"I  should  kneel  if  I  were  ashamed,"  he  thought, 
"and  I  am  not  ashamed." 

When  the  short  ceremony  was  over,  and  the 
bride  and  groom  stood  in  the  vestry  waiting  for 
the  carriage,  Mrs.  Sonnenthal  caught  sight  of  her 
favorite  at  the  door,  and  sent  for  him. 

"Felix,  this  is  Violett  Maule,"  she  said, — al 
most  the  first  words  she  said  to  her  husband. 


102  VIOLETT 

Sonnenthal  took  Violett's  hand  and  looked  at 
him. 

"You  can  play  the  piano?  "  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"You  can  distinguish  tones  and  notes  by  ear?" 

"Yes." 

"You  —  love  music?  " 

"Yes." 

Sonnenthal  looked  at  the  boy's  hand  with  curi 
ous  intentness,  turned  it  over,  moved  the  flexible 
•wrist,  bent  back  the  supple  first  joints,  and  studied 
the  strong  little  thumbs  with  a  leisure  that  was 
rather  resented  by  some  of  the  people  standing 
near. 

"Who  is  it?"  asked  Sir  Capel  Berkeley,  the 
greatest  landowner  of  the  neighborhood,  of  Mrs. 
Pinckney,  who  put  up  her  gold  glass  and  examined 
the  great  musician  and  the  poorly  dressed  child 
with  careless  scrutiny. 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  she  returned  audi 
bly.  "  Oh,  yes,  I  do ;  it 's  the  lighthouse  boy, 
Maule's  son.  You  remember  about  Maule's  mur 
dering  his  niece  —  always  such  a  nice,  civil  man 
—  I  was  quite  shocked." 

Violett  heard. 

He  drew  his  hand  away  from  Sonnenthal's  and 
slipped  quietly  through  the  door  into  the  church 
yard. 


VIOLETT  103 

His  mother  was  buried  there,  close  to  a  hedge 
now  bare  and  brown. 

Violett  could  not  remember  his  mother,  and  he 
had  never  missed  her.  Agnes  had  been  a  mother 
in  all  but  fact  to  him. 

Now,  however,  he  sat  down  by  the  grave,  with 
its  slanting  mossy  stone,  and  cried. 

Five  years  had  passed,  and  yet  people  did  not 
forget.  And  he  knew  that  people  never  would 
forget. 


XIX 

A  FEW  months  after  Eose  Carstairs's  marriage 
Mouchette  died,  and  the  music  lessons  came  to  an 
end.  Mr.  Winnock,  whose  health,  though  quite 
satisfactory  to  his  friends,  was  considered  by  him 
self  to  be  failing,  went  to  Italy  for  the  winter,  and 
in  his  absence  the  pianos  were  locked,  as  a  protec 
tion  against  the  curate's  children,  so  that  Violett 
had  no  piano  on  which  to  play. 

And  the  loneliness  of  mind  and  hands  when 
deprived  of  the  bow  or  the  keys ! 

The  boy  was  very  unhappy  at  first;  he  awoke 
night  after  night  from  blissful  dreams  to  find  his 
fingers  positively  aching  for  the  cool  touch  of  the 
smooth  ivory. 

At  first  the  color  of  all  sounds  faded  for  him  to 
a  dull  neutral  tint  that  was  a  gray  to  his  ears,  and 
he  sat  for  hours  in  the  cold  wind  trying  to  hear 
the  color  of  the  waves  breaking. 

Agnes  was  anxious  about  him. 

"He's  growin'  too  fast,  Michael,"  the  old  wo 
man  said  once,  "and  he  's  just  aching  for  music." 

"All  nonsense,  a  lightkeeper's  boy  iver  to  have 
had  lessons,  anyhow ! "  Michael  answered  gruffly, 
but  his  eyes  followed  Violett' s  languid  figure  with 
concern,  nevertheless. 


VIOLETT  105 

Gradually,  Time  did  his  work. 

The  hours  in  the  rectory  drawing-room  grew 
less  painfully  vivid.  The  boy's  hands  forgot  the 
haunting  coolness  of  the  keys,  and  the  sound  of 
the  sea  was  sea-color  once  more. 

The  winter  passed  and  spring  blossomed  into 
summer.  One  June  day  Violett  sat  in  the  Cradle, 
listening  to  a  splendidly  rhythmical  march  that  the 
sea  was  singing  to  him. 

It  was  a  glorious,  golden  morning,  full  of  the 
joy  of  life,  and  the  air  throbbed  with  music. 

When  Bob  Venn's  boat  appeared  Violett  called 
to  him,  his  voice  vibrating  with  the  instinctive 
delight  of  youth  in  spring,  "Hello,  Bob, — isn't 
it  aU  beautiful!" 

Venn  waved  his  hand,  with  something  white  in 
it. 

"A  letter  for  you,Vi'lett  —  from  London  !  " 

It  was  the  boy's  first  letter. 

Slipping  out  of  his  clothes  he  crawled  down  — 
his  supple  little  body  white  against  the  moss,  brown 
in  the  blue  water  —  and  swam  out  to  the  boat. 
The  letter  was  addressed  by  Bayne,  but  inside  it 
was  a  second  envelope  on  which  some  one  had 
written  "Stevie." 

Violett  flushed  with  excitement. 

"It  —  it  must  be  from  her!"  he  said  breath 
lessly. 


106  VIOLETT 

But  there  was  no  letter.  Instead  it  was  a  pho 
tograph. 

The  picture  represented  the  little  girl  in  tights 
and  a  short  pleated  skirt,  her  hair  hanging  below 
her  waist  in  ringlets.  Violett  never  forgot  that 
moment :  Bob  Venn  leaning  on  his  oars  and  smil 
ing  kindly,  he  himself  sitting  naked  in  the  stern, 
and  Minnie's  little  pleased  face  smiling  up  at  him 
from  the  photograph. 

The  next  event  in  the  child's  life  was  a  very 
different  one. 

Rose  Sonnenthal  and  her  husband  came  back  to 
the  rectory  once,  to  visit  the  rector,  who  was  to 
give  up  his  living  and  had  returned  to  make  the 
necessary  arrangements;  and  the  young  woman 
sent  for  her  protege  to  come  to  see  her. 

Violett,  coming  into  the  drawing-room,  beaming 
with  happiness,  stopped  short  as  he  saw  the  pale 
face  turned  to  welcome  him  from  the  fireside. 
There  was  tragedy  and  sorrow  in  the  atmosphere, 
and  his  painfully  sensitive  nature  felt  it  at  once. 

Sonnenthal,  who  was  at  the  piano,  nodded  good- 
naturedly  to  the  boy  without  stopping  his  playing, 
and  Violett,  going  quickly  to  Mrs.  Sonnenthal, 
stood  looking  at  her  and  her  baby,  without  a  word. 

"Hello!    So  you  are  our  friend  the  genius!  " 

The  music  had  ceased. 
"I  am  Violett  Maule." 


VIOLETT  107 

"The  boy  I  saw  in  the  vestry.  You  have 
grown." 

Violett  did  not  answer.  His  eyes  were  fixed 
quietly  on  the  speaker's  face. 

"Violett  —  why  don't  you  answer?" 

The  nervous  anxiety  in  Rose  Sonnenthal's  voice 
told  the  whole  story.  She  was  afraid  of  her  hus 
band. 

"Yes,  I  have  grown." 

Sonnenthal  was  in  a  radiant  humor.  Calling  the 
boy  to  him,  he  laid  one  hand  on  his  thin  young 
shoulder  and  talked  to  him. 

"Can  you  play?" 

"Yes,  I  can  play." 

"Have  you  worked  hard?" 

"No,  Mouchette  is  dead,  and  —  Mr.  Winnock 
was  away." 

"But  you  hear  sky-blue  sea  music,  and  red- 
poppy-in-the-corn  music?" 

"Don't  tease  him,  Felix  dear!"  Rose  came 
and  stood  by  them. 

At  length,  still  jocose,  the  great  man  rose,  and 
shoving  Violett  into  his  place,  told  him  to  play. 

Miss  Rose's  pitiful  face  before  him,  Sonnen 
thal's  recent  music  in  his  ears,  Violett  sat  help 
lessly  at  the  piano,  his  thin,  boyish  hands  lying 
limp  on  the  keys.  Something  was  wrong.  Miss 
Rose  was  unhappy,  Sonnenthal  in  a  bad  mood. 
Violett  could  not  play. 


108  VIOLETT 

"Well,  well,  go  on,  —  begin  something!"  the 
great  man  said  impatiently,  and  Rose  added  has 
tily,  nervously,  "  Yes,  Violett.  Do  play  something 
for  the  master.  I  have  told  him  about  you." 

And  Violett  tried,  and  could  not.  He  hated 
Sonuenthal;  he  loved  Rose.  His  head  hummed 
with  hateful  melody,  that  meant  the  little  German 
Jew  with  the  blue  chin,  and  beautiful,  plaintive 
silver-gray  airs,  that  meant  Rose. 

With  a  hideous  discord  that  brought  a  cry  to 
his  own  lips,  he  rose,  turning  helplessly  to  Rose. 

"Ach!  That  is  your  genius,  my  dear,"  said 
Sonnenthal,  with  a  sneer.  "You  had  better  be 
come  a  butcher  of  pigs  and  calves,  Mr.  Violett, 
than  a  butcher  of  art." 

Rose  bit  her  lip  helplessly.  "Oh,  Violett!  "  she 
cried,  as  her  husband  left  the  room. 

Violett  caught  her  hand,  tears  rolling  down 
his  cheeks.  "Miss  Rose,  I  couldn't  help  it!  I 
couldn't  play!  " 

"But  you  used  to!  And  I  told  him  so  much 
about  it.  I  thought  it  would  amuse  him  —  it  is 
so  dull  for  him  here." 

Violett  wiped  his  eyes,  and  bending  down  to 
her  said  very  low  and  hurriedly,  "I  —  hate  him !  " 

Then  he  rushed  from  the  house. 

This  scene  often  came  back  to  him,  — the  strength 
of  his  reasonless  dislike  of  the  great  man,  who  was 


VIOLETT  109 

ready  to  help  him ;  the  utter  impossibility  of  play 
ing  for  that  man;  poor  Rose  Sonnenthal's  sad 
face  — 

He  did  not  go  again  to  the  rectory.  The  old 
longing  for  a  piano  had  come  back  to  him,  the 
dreams,  the  loneliness.  There  was  music  every 
where,  only  the  piano  was  needed  to  develop  it, 
and  in  the  absence  of  the  medium,  harmony  be 
came  discord. 

One  evening  a  few  weeks  later,  Violett  was  sit 
ting  by  the  dying  fire  alone  with  Agnes,  who  was 
asleep. 

He  had  been  haunted  for  days  by  an  air  that 
would  not  come  right,  —  an  air  full  of  beauty  and 
strength,  but  that  was  hopelessly  tangled  and  dis 
torted  in  his  mind.  His  slim  hands,  lying  on  his 
knees,  shaped  themselves  unconsciously  to  the  key 
board  he  was  dreaming  into  a  momentary  reality ; 
the  firelight  flickered  on  his  hopeless,  weary  face. 

For  a  long  time  there  was  utter  silence  in  the 
room,  and  then  looking  up,  the  boy  gave  a  little 
cry.  Mr.  Barton  had  come  in  and  was  looking  at 
him. 

A  moment  later,  the  visit  was  explained. 

"Violett,"  Barton  said,  "I  have  just  heard  from 
Mrs.  Sonnenthal.  She  wrote  me  a  long  letter 
about  you,  and  asked  me  to  come  to  see  you." 

"Did  she,  sir?" 


110  VIOLETT 

"It  appears  that  you  have  a  great  talent  for 
music." 

"I  love  music." 

"Mrs.  Sonnenthal  tells  me  that  for  several  years 
you  have  had  lessons  at  the  rector's  expense,  and 
showed  great  promise.  SCm  !  Since  Mrs.  Patch's 
death,  you  have  had  no  instruction,  and  no  piano 
to  play  on.  You  may  not  know,"  he  went  on,  "that 
though  Mrs.  Sonnenthal  is  much  interested  in  you, 
she  cannot  give  you  any  practical  help." 

Agnes  flushed,  and  her  brown  hands  caught  each 
other  tight.  "If  by  practical  help,  sir,  you  mean 
money,"  she  began  with  timid  pride,  "Violett 
needs  no  charity  beyond  that  of  word  and  thought." 

"My  good  woman,  will  you  let  me  finish  what  I 
have  to  say?  Mrs.  Sonnenthal  has  no  money  of 
her  own,  and  I  fancy  from  what  she  says,  that  her 
husband  has  refused  to  help  you." 

"I  hate  him!  "  said  Violett  tranquilly.  "He  is 
not  good  to  her!" 

"That 's  as  may  be.  Now,  knowing  in  a  vague 
way  that  you  have  a  small  fortune,  and  that  I  am 
your  guardian,  she  has  applied  to  me,  and  I  have 
come  to  tell  you  that  I  am  prepared  to  advance 
you  enough  money  to  buy  yourself  a  piano.  You 
can  repay  me  when  you  are  of  age." 

Violett  never  forgot  the  two  faces,  both  turned 
to  him,  waiting  for  his  answer. 


VIOLETT  111 

"A  piano!" 

It  meant  so  much  to  him. 

"Violett,"  Agnes  rose  and  laid  her  hand  on  his 
arm,  "you  hated  the  piano  lessons,  dearie." 

"Piano  lessons  and  a  piano  are  very  different 
things,"  commented  Barton  impatiently.  "Pray 
let  the  boy  decide  for  himself;  he  is  quite  old 
enough,  and  your  objections  to  the  use  of  the 
money  are  ridiculous." 

"Yes — Agnes.  I  must  decide  for  myself"  — 
The  boy  hesitated  for  a  moment.  "  I  will  go  out 
for  a  little  while." 

"Yes.  Go.  And  God  go  with  you,  my  dearie. 
Remember,  until  to-day  you  are  innocent  in  God's 
sight  of  —  that  which  your  father  did.  But  if  you 
partake  of  the  money,  you  partake  of  his  crime." 

It  was  December,  and  the  gray  water  was  cold. 
Violett  stood  in  the  little  cove  looking  seawards. 
It  was  here  where  he  had  so  often  played  with  the 
Adamses,  —  where  the  ocean  had  sung  to  him  the 
night  his  father  had  paid  the  price  of  the  money 
that  was  offered  him  now.  It  was  here  that  he  had 
first  heard  in  full  the  song  of  the  sea,  his  com 
panion  now  for  many  years. 

If  he  had  a  piano,  all  for  himself,  he  could  sit 
by  it  for  hours,  and  it  would  sing  to  him  all  the 
inarticulate  but  splendid  melodies  that  he  knew, 
and  the  others,  more  beautiful  still,  which  he  knew 


112  VIOLETT 

were  waiting  for  him.  It  would  mean  a  life  brim 
ful  of  splendor;  it  would  mean  happiness. 

He  would  have  it.  He  would  take  the  money. 

The  feeling  of  the  cool,  smooth  ivory  came  again 
to  his  fingers,  so  strongly  that  he  looked  down  at 
them  half  expectantly. 

Under  the  dull  winter  sky  he  dreamed  on,  and 
at  his  feet  the  sea  sang. 

It  was  its  own  splendid,  rhythmical  melody,  — 
the  Song  of  the  Sea,  the  melody  that  had  come  to 
him  years  ago  in  the  night. 

And  as  the  day  was  leaden  and  gray,  its  sound 
was  to  him  leaden  and  gray,  just  as  in  the  sum 
mer  sun  it  was  blue  and  flashing.  The  sense  of 
harmony  that  was  so  keenly  his  stirred  the  boy's 
heart  as  he  listened.  The  piano  was  to  be  his,  and 
it  would  express  to  other  people  the  music  of  na 
ture  that  they  were  too  dull  to  hear. 

And  then  with  a  little  sharp  sound  in  his  throat, 
he  lay  down  in  the  chill  sand,  hiding  his  face.  The 
color  was  going !  Gently  and  relentlessly  the  har 
monious  grayness  of  the  waves'  sound  was  fading 
into  a  chaotic  nothingness  that  was  horrible.  It 
was  as  if  the  sky  had  lost  its  color,  and  become  a 
whirling  blank  above  ghastly  trees  and  inharmo 
nious  meadows. 

Violett  was  frightened.  Harmony  had  become 
discord. 


VIOLETT  113 

And  then  in  an  instant  he  knew  why.  His  was 
not  at  all  a  religious  nature ;  he  did  not  say  to  him 
self  that  his  conscience  had  risen  up  in  arms  against 
his  determination  to  take  the  money  for  the  piano. 
He  merely  felt  that  to  take  the  money  was  unnatu 
ral,  a  sin  against  the  laws  of  inner  harmony,  and 
that  therefore  he  must  not  do  it. 

Rushing  up  the  path  to  the  house,  he  announced 
to  Barton  that  he  would  not  have  the  piano,  and 
opposed  the  man's  practical  arguments  with  an 
eager  obstinacy  so  totally  unlike  his  usual  passivity 
as  to  surprise  even  Agnes. 

"Violett,  dearie,"  the  blind  woman  exclaimed, 
when  the  door  had  closed,  and  she  and  the  boy 
were  alone,  "I'm  glad  —  very  glad!  But  why? 
What  happened  to  change  'ee  so?  " 

He  gave  a  nervous  shudder. 

"I  couldn't,  Agnes,"  he  returned  simply. 


XX 

THE  line  between  youth  and  manhood  is  in  most 
cases  less  a  line  than  a  soft  encompassing  mist  that 
creeps  about  one  until  all  distinctive  landmarks 
are  hidden,  and  one  wanders  on  gropingly.  When 
at  last  it  clears  away  one  must  look  backward  to 
see  familiar  things,  for  before  one  lies  the  un 
known;  one's  feet  are  set  on  a  splendid  strange 
path  that  they  reached  in  the  mist. 

Violett's  case  was  different. 

He  rose  one  day  a  child,  and  when  he  went  to 
bed,  childhood  had  gone.  He  had  grown  to  be  a 
tall,  over-slight  youth  with  thin  wrists  and  ankles; 
his  dark  hair,  burnt  by  the  sun  to  a  rusty  brown, 
hung  in  a  heavy  lock  over  his  brow.  His  face,  thin 
and  brown,  was  long,  the  chin  pointed,  and  the 
unusually  long  lower  lashes,  shadowing  his  bright, 
gray  eyes,  gave  him  a  look  of  delicacy. 

He  had  read  a  great  deal  since  Bayne  had  been 
at  the  island,  and  of  late  had  discovered  Keats, 
whom  he  loved  to  the  end  of  his  days,  the  best  of 
all  poets.  Lonely,  shut  in,  with  literally  no  one 
with  whom  he  could  talk  of  his  books  otherwise 
than  as  an  instructor,  he  had  grown  to  be  over- 
thoughtful,  over-dreamy,  and  the  exaggeration  of 
the  two  qualities  showed  in  his  grave  young  face. 


VIOLETT  115 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  his  seventeenth  birth 
day,  the  boy  sat  in  the  Cradle,  his  arms  clasped 
about  his  knees,  a  book  lying  face  down  on  the 
rock  beside  him. 

It  was  the  worn  volume  of  Byron  that  he  had 
found  years  before  in  his  mother's  little  library,  — 
worn,  but  with  the  inglorious  wornness  of  disuse. 
The  leaves,  thin  as  the  lining  of  an  egg,  and 
gilded,  were  gray ;  the  bright  blue  of  the  cover  had 
faded,  but  for  the  bright  squares  where  smaller 
books  had  leaned  for  years  against  it.  It  was  a 
mournful  little  book,  and  Violett  did  not  love  it. 
To-day,  for  the  first  time,  he  had  found  in  it  some 
thing  that  pleased  him,  and  he  had  learned  the 
first  stanza  by  heart. 

"  She  walked  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies." 

He  repeated  it  slowly  to  himself,  and  then  was 
silent,  and  thought  of  Minnie  Bayne.  He  was  now 
seventeen ;  that  made  Minnie  sixteen. 

"  And  all  that 's  best  of  dark  and  light 
Meets  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes." 

The  world  was  so  exquisitely  beautiful,  and  Min 
nie,  now  nearly  a  woman,  was  in  it,  somewhere. 

In  his  simple  thoughts  Minnie's  yellow  hair  still 
floated  about  her  slight  shoulders,  but  yet  there 
would  be  a  great  change,  and  the  thought  of  the 
change  thrilled  him  to  his  finger-tips. 


116  VIOLETT 

He  had  thought  of  Minnie  all  day,  for  some 
reason,  and  he  loved  everything. 

When  she  came  again,  and  she  would  come,  he 
would  go  to  her  with  outstretched  hands,  and  she 
would  lay  her  hands  in  his,  and  he  would  be 
happy. 

He  had  not  seen  her  for  five  years,  and  yet  that 
day  he  fell  in  love  with  her;  for  his  time  had 
come,  and  he  knew  no  other  woman. 

All  the  beautiful  things  he  had  ever  read  ap 
plied  to  her,  even  the  poems  of  nature.  She  it  was 
who  "was  a  phantom  of  delight,"  she  it  was  who 
was  "like  a  red,  red  rose,"  whose  voice  was  "as 
the  bird's  in  May."  Everything  beautiful  in  the 
world  was  hers,  and  he  himself  was  hers,  and  she 
was  his. 

Childhood  had  gone. 


PART  II 


HIGH  up  in  an  old  house  not  far  from  the  river,  in 
one  of  London's  dreary,  respectable  poorer  quar 
ters,  Jim  Bayne  lay  in  bed.  The  room  was  dark, 
for  it  was  November  and  late  afternoon,  and  the 
table  lamp  threw  but  a  faint  light. 

Near  the  table  the  senora  sat  sewing,  her  fat 
back  bent  over  her  work,  her  untidy  hair  bristling 
with  curl-papers.  She  had  grown  much  older  since 
she  had  been  at  the  Sea-Urchin,  and  the  encroach 
ing  fat,  as  well  as  worse  things,  was  ruining  her 
beauty.  As  she  worked,  she  cast  impatient  glances 
first  at  the  sick  man,  then  towards  the  door. 

"He  ain't  a-comin'  at  all,  it  seems,"  she  re 
marked  at  last,  and  Bayne  sighed. 

"I  told  you  it  was  nonsense,  Bayne,  but  you 
was  always  that  obstinate." 

"He'll  come,"  ejaculated  the  man  hoarsely. 
"  Where  'sMin?" 

"Rehearsin'I  D'Orsay  is  goin'  to  bring  'er 
'ome." 

She  drew  her  needleful  of  cotton  through  the 
gay  satin  with  a  snap,  and  looked  furtively  at  her 
husband,  who,  however,  did  not  speak  for  several 
seconds.  When  he  did,  it  was  to  say  painfully,  "I 
don't  like  d'Orsay,  Dooloars." 


120  VIOLETT 

"I  know  you  don't,  and  it 's  very  silly  of  you. 
'E  's  a  gentleman,  and  mikes  'is  pound  a  week." 

"Not  a  gentleman.  Oh,  no,  not  that!"  He 
broke  off  to  cough  painfully,  and  she  rose,  and  not 
unkindly  arranging  his  pillows,  gave  him  some 
water. 

"Poor  old  chap,  you  're  breaking  up  fast,  ain't 
yer?  "  she  asked,  with  a  mild  curiosity. 

He  nodded.  "Yes,  I'm  goin'  —  thank  Gawd. 
If  Stevie  don't  come  "  — 

Her  old  lazy  good  humor,  of  late  such  a  fluctuat 
ing  quantity,  came  back  with  a  rush,  and  sitting 
down  by  him,  she  took  his  hot  hand  in  hers,  and 
stroked  it  softly. 

"  'E  '11  come.  'E  was  always  a  good  boy,  Stevie, 
an'  'e  was  that  fond  of  me!" 

She  smiled  at  the  recollection,  and  meditatively 
pulled  the  curl-papers  out  of  her  hair. 

"Better  put  some  clothes  on,"  Bayne  suggested, 
smiling.  "You  ain't  very  fine." 

A  few  minutes  later,  when  Violett  came  in,  the 
senora  was  gorgeous  in  a  yellow,  much  spangled, 
if  somewhat  soiled,  evening  gown. 

"It 's  so  warm,"  she  explained  with  an -exagger 
ation  of  her  old  languid  grace,  "that  I  dressed  a 
little  earlier." 

Violett  nodded  vaguely.  Bayne  was  dying,  and 
he  had  come  to  say  good -by.  That  was  all  he 


VIOLETT  121 

could  think  of.  Even  Minnie  was  forgotten  for 
the  moment. 

"I  was  afraid  you'd  come  too  late,  boy,"  the 
man  told  him,  "and  I  've  so  much  to  say  to  you. 
You  remember  my  play  ?  " 

"Do  I!   Of  course  I  do." 

"  Well  —  it 's  going  on.  It 's  going  to  be  played 
this  year." 

Violett  flushed.    "Mr.  Wauchope?  " 

"No,  no.  It  wasn't  good  enough  for  him.  It 's 
a  cheap  company,  not  much,  but  it 's  to  be  given, 
and  that 's  the  chief  thing.  I  want  Totila  to  be 
good,  though,  Vi  —  Stevie.  That 's  why  I  sent  for 
you,"  went  on  the  dying  man  rapidly,  propping 
himself  on  one  elbow  and  gazing  earnestly  at  the 
boy.  "  You  must  act  him." 

"I,  Mr.  Bayne?  But  —  I  can't  act.  I  don't 
know  how,"  stammered  Violett. 

Mrs.  Bayne  poured  some  spirits  into  a  glass  and 
laughed. 

" Bayne 's  took  it  into  'is  'ead  that  you  an'  no 
other  are  the  man  to  do  it.  'E  says  you  read  the 
lines  so  well." 

"Oh,  read!  Yes,  I  can  read,  but  I  can't  act, 
Senora." 

Bayne  reached  under  his  pillow  and  drew  out  a 
ragged  manuscript. 

"Here,  read  it  now,  she  's  a  good  judge.    Read 


122  VIOLETT 

the  part  where  he  harangues  the  women  and  chil 
dren,  and  tells  them  that  they  must  jump  into  the 
crater  if  the  battle  is  lost." 

The  boy  did  not  hesitate.  He  had  known  the 
scene  by  heart  once,  and  even  now  it  came  rushing 
into  his  active  memory  from  the  recesses  of  that 
passive  one  where  so  much  lies  half  forgotten. 

He  rose  and  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  untidy 
room,  his  thin  shadow  quivering  across  the  floor 
as  he  moved,  and  repeated  the  lines  with  his  sim 
ple  dramatic  taste,  to  which  the  warmth  of  his 
young  voice  lent  something  very  touching. 

"  '  And  you,  you  Gothic  women,  in  whose  arms 
Lie  Gothic  babies  never  to  be  men, 
Your  part  is  this  '  "  — 

On  and  on  it  went,  rough  and  halting  verse,  sim 
ply  delivered,  but  thrilling  because  it  held  thoughts 
that,  turned  over  and  over  in  a  man's  heart  for 
a  lifetime,  were  written  with  emotion  and  truth 
fulness. 

When  he  had  come  to  the  end  of  the  scene,  Violett 
looked  up,  to  see  tears  coursing  down  the  furrows 
of  Bayne's  face,  and  even  splashing  on  the  senora's 
yellow  satin  bosom.  His  own  eyes  were  wet,  as  they 
traveled  to  the  door,  and  there  he  saw  Minnie ;  and 
dropping  the  roll  of  papers,  he  went  simply  toward 
her,  both  hands  held  out. 


VIOLETT  123 

The  young  girl  came  in,  a  smile  on  her  face. 
"Oh,  Stevie!"  she  said,  and  gave  him  her  small 
gloved  hands. 

It  was  absolute  heaven,  and  Violett  forgot  every 
thing  for  one  second. 

"Now  then,  now  then,  Min,  who  the  deuce's 
this  young  gent?  " 

The  man  who  had  come  in  with  Minnie  laid  his 
hand  on  her  arm,  and  she  and  Violett  sprang 
apart. 

"Now  don't  you  be  hasty,"  the  young  girl  re 
torted,  with  an  air  of  conscious  coquetry.  "  What 's 
it  to  you  who  I  shake  hands  with  ?  Here,  Stevie,  I 
am  that  glad  to  see  you !  " 

She  smiled  up  at  the  tall  boy,  for  she  had  grown 
but  little,  and  in  her  great  eyes  was  a  mixture  of 
two  expressions,  one  of  which  delighted  Violett, 
while  the  other  hurt  him. 

"Mr.  d'Orsay,"  broke  in  the  senora  in  her  most 
magnificent  manner,  "allow  me  to  present  to  you 
Mr.  Haddams,  a  young  friend  of  ours  —  a  child 
hood's  friend  of  Miss  Bayne." 

Violett  bowed,  overwhelmed  by  the  splendor  of 
a  mother's  calling  her  daughter  Miss  Bayne. 

Mr.  d'Orsay,  looking  at  the  childhood's  friend 
with  an  anything  but  friendly  eye,  melted  a  little 
as  he  observed  the  extreme  poverty  of  the  boy's 
clothes,  the  shortness  of  his  sleeves,  the  cut  of  his 


124  VIOLETT 

hair.  "Chawmed,"  he  murmured  in  the  deep  voice 
that  was  making  his  fortune  as  a  polite  villain. 

Violett  rudely  paid  no  attention  to  him,  how 
ever,  but  stood  gazing  at  Minnie  until  Bayne  in 
terrupted  his  trance  by  suddenly,  without  a  word 
of  warning,  fainting  dead  away. 

When  he  was  somewhat  restored,  the  sick  man 
called  Violett  and  explained  what  he  wished  him 
to  do. 

"Mr.  Chaffee,  the  manager,  is  coming  in  to 
night,  and  you  're  to  read  the  role  to  him.  Then 
he  '11  take  you  to  the  theatre  and  you  '11  see  the 
others.  Oh,  Gawd,  if  I  could  only  live  until  it 's 
given ! " 

Violett,  to  whom  it  never  occurred  to  explain 
that  he  wished  to  be  a  lighthouse-keeper  and  not 
an  actor,  listened  acquiescently. 

If  Bayne  had  chosen  to  have  him  climb  the 
dome  of  St.  Paul's,  he  would  at  once  have  set  out 
to  make  the  attempt.  Bayne  was  Minnie's  father. 

Evening  came,  and  Minnie  and  Mr.  d'Orsay, 
after  a  light  meal,  went  off  to  the  theatre,  the 
senora  having  already  departed  for  her  music-hall 
round. 

Minnie,  Bayne  told  Violett,  was  singing  now  in 
light  comedy.  Her  voice  was  very  good,  and  she 
was  to  have  a  role  next  year.  As  yet  she  was  in 
the  chorus. 


VIOLETT  125 

Violett  listened  eagerly,  asking  a  question  now 
and  then,  but  very  quiet  in  his  mingled  happiness 
and  sorrow.  He  was  with  Minnie  again,  but 
Bayne,  who  had  been  his  friend,  was  dying. 

"D'Orsay  comes  around  a  good  bit,"  Bayne 
went  on,  "and  1  'm  sorry.  I  don't  like  him.  Doo- 
loars  says  he  's  a  gentleman,  Vi'lett,  but  he  ain't. 
'E  's  a  gent,  that 's  what  'e  is,  and  Lord  knows 
that 's  far  from  being  a  gentleman."  He  paused  a 
moment,  and  then  went  on,  "How  old  are  you, 
Vi'lett  —  I  must  n't  call  you  that  —  Stevie !  " 

"  I  'm  eighteen,  Mr.  Bayne.  In  August,  you 
know." 

Bayne  sighed.  "I  wish  you  was  a  few  years 
older.  Like  's  not  she  won't  wait  that  long,  or 
Dooloars  won't  let  'er." 

"Wait  for  what,  Mr.  Bayne?  " 

"To  marry,  Vi'lett.  Dooloars  wants  'er  to 
marry  d'Orsay." 

Violett  pressed  the  palms  of  his  hands  very  hard 
to  the  arms  of  his  chair.  Minnie  marry  d'Orsay! 

"Will  you  let  her  marry  me,  Mr.  Bayne?"  he 
asked  simply. 

Bayne  laughed.  "You're  too  young,  my  boy. 
And  then  you  have  no  money." 

Violett  turned  very  pale  and  went  to  the  win 
dow. 

"You  could  n't  keep  a  wife,  could  you?"   The 


126  VIOLETT 

sick  man  sat  up  in  bed,  his  eyes  bright  with  sudden 
hope. 

"  Keep  —  a  wife  "  — 

"I  mean  —  'ave  you  any  money?  A  little  would 
do,  Stevie  —  just  enough  to  live  on"  — 

There  was  a  star  hanging  low  over  the  waste  of 
chimney  pots  before  him,  and  Violett's  eyes  were 
fixed  on  it. 

"Would  she?   I  mean,  do  you  think"  — 

"Oh,  Stevie — 'ave  you  any  money?  This  is 
not  the  life  for  'er,  and  she  was  always  fond  of 
you  —  I  —  I  could  die  'appy. " 

The  money  was  there,  in  Mr.  Barton's  hands. 
Formerly  it  had  meant  a  piano;  now  it  meant 
Minnie.  The  boy  turned. 

"I"  —  he  began,  and  then  suddenly  he  remem 
bered  the  horrible  tumult  of  the  sea,  that  day  when 
he  had  tried  to  take  the  money;  the  awful  color- 
lessness  of  all  sound;  the  discord  of  everything. 
"I  —  there  is  the  island,"  he  said,  his  voice  so 
harsh  that  Bayne  turned  and  stared  at  him,  "but 
—  I  have  no  money." 


II 

D'ORSAY  used  a  strong  scent,  and  the  smell  of  it 
was  almost  unbearable  to  Violett.  The  man  in 
every  way  was  horrible,  —  his  smooth  black  hair, 
his  smart  clothes,  and  his  voice.  The  boy  used  to 
watch  him  with  a  look  that  was  almost  horror  in 
his  eyes. 

Minnie,  laughing,  sulking,  smiling  at  the  actor, 
almost  broke  Violett's  heart.  Once  he  ventured  to 
remonstrate. 

"Minnie  —  I  wish  you  wouldn't  look  at  that  — 
that  man  in  that  way." 

She  burst  out  laughing.  "Wazzum  jealous? 
Diddums  want  to  bite  the  big  black  bowwow?  " 
she  answered,  and  he  drew  back  as  if  she  had 
struck  him. 

Mr.  Chaffee,  the  manager  of  the  touring  com 
pany  that  was  to  produce  "The  Gothic  King," 
turned  surly  when  he  learned  that  Adams  —  whom 
Bayne  had  assured  him  to  be  just  the  man  for 
the  title  role  of  the  drama  —  was  a  mere  boy 
who  had  never  seen  the  inside  of  a  theatre  in  his 
life. 

"Wait  till  you  'ear  his  voice,"  pleaded  Bayne. 

"Voice  is  all  very  well,  but  it  takes  more  than 
that  to  make  an  actor." 


128  VIOLETT 

Bayne  sat  up  in  bed,  his  thin  face  flushed. 
"There  isn't  one  person  in  your  company  that  'as 
a  grain  of  talent,  Joe  Chaffee,  and  you  know  it. 
Adams  is  a  genius,  I  tell  you  —  oh,  not  for  acting, 
but  better  for  music,  an'  he  reads  aloud  to  make 
a  man  sob.  Wait  till  you  'ear  'im." 

So  Violett  recited  again  the  scene  of  the  good- 
by,  —  and  Chaffee  listened. 

The  boy  was  no  actor,  but  his  gestures,  full  of 
his  own  supple  grace,  his  utter  freedom  from  self- 
consciousness,  and  the  beauty  of  his  voice  struck 
the  manager.  When  he  learned  that  Violett,  far 
from  expecting  a  salary,  considered  Chaff ee's  ac 
ceptance  of  his  service  as  a  great  favor  that  enabled 
him  to  give  pleasure  to  poor  Bayne,  the  manager 
melted,  and  Violett  was  accepted  as  one  of  the 
third-rate  band  of  players,  in  which  he  at  first 
believed  utterly. 

Chaffee  had  long  thought  that  Bayne  was  mad, 
and  immediately  put  Violett  into  the  same  inter 
esting  and  sometimes  profitable  category. 

The  rehearsals  of  "The  Gothic  King"  went  on 
regularly,  and  some  of  the  excitement  of  theatrical 
life  crept  into  Violett' s  veins.  There  was  a  won 
derful  charm  in  the  dusty  darkness  of  the  stage, 
while  the  company  gathered,  waiting  for  Mr. 
Chaffee;  and  then  when  the  electric  light  was 
turned  suddenly  on,  the  boy's  imagination  saw 


VIOLETT  129 

wonderful  things  in  the  shadows,  the  very  heaps  of 
scenery  were  full  of  poetry  to  him,  and  the  dusky 
emptiness  of  the  unlit  auditorium  was  peopled  for 
him  by  creatures  of  his  own  brain.  He  knew  his 
role  by  heart  at  once,  and  soon  was  able  to  help 
most  of  the  others,  whispering  a  forgotten  cue  or 
joggling  an  inattentive  elbow. 

The  other  members  of  the  company  liked  the 
tall,  silent  boy,  always  ready  to  do  a  good  turn  to 
any  of  them,  and  he  soon  learned  that  in  spite  of 
his  limited  years  he  was  not  unpleasing  to  the 
women  and  girls. 

One  of  the  latter,  a  little  blonde  with  a  dimple 
in  her  cheek,  after  making  in  vain  several  flirta 
tious  advances  to  him,  suddenly  brought  him  to 
confusion  by  declaring  to  the  assembled  company, 
"Well,  dears  all,  it's  up  to  you  to  congratulate 
Mr.  Hadams.  'E  's  engaged." 

"To  whom?" 

"To  me.  'E  proposed  last  night,  and  very  neat 
'e  did  it,  for  the  first  time." 

Violett  stood  still,  his  hands  clinched  tight,  while 
the  girls  and  one  or  two  of  the  men  shouted  with 
laughter. 

"Where  's  your  ring,  Maudie?"  asked  one  man 
at  length. 

Maudie  giggled.  '"E  's  telegraphed  to  'is  guv'- 
nor  for  the  family  jools,  ain't  you,  Ducky?" 


130  VIOLETT 

Violett  looked  at  her.  "If  I  had  asked  you  to 
marry  me,  would  it  be  so  funny?" 

He  had  no  sense  of  humor,  but  he  had  dignity. 
They  all  had  a  rough  kind  of  humor,  but  not  one 
of  them  any  dignity.  Therefore  they  were  im 
pressed.  They  stopped  laughing,  and  into  Maud 
Courtenay's*  eyes  came  a  look  of  curiosity  that 
stayed  until  it  changed  to  something  else. 

One  evening  Violett  and  Minnie  sat  by  the 
window  talking  in  low  tones  while  Bayne  slept. 
Minnie  was  sewing  some  rosettes  on  a  pair  of 
high-heeled  satin  shoes,  and  Violett  watched  her 
small  white  hands  as  they  twisted  and  turned  over 
their  work. 

"Minnie,"  the  boy  said  at  length,  "are  you  sure 
you  like  d'Orsay?" 

"  Sure  I  like  him  ?  What  a  question,  Stevie !  Of 
course  I  'm  sure,  or  I  'd  'ave  sent  'im  about  his 
business  long  ago." 

"Your  father  doesn't  like  him." 

"I  know.  Poor  pa  's  very  queer.  Ma  likes  'im, 
though,  and  ma  knows  the  world.  Whatever  made 
you  think  of  d'Orsay?" 

"I  think  of  him  often,  Minnie." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  the  precocious  co 
quetry  of  her  kind,  but  beneath  his  steady  gaze 
her  eyes  changed  and  fell. 

"You  're  a  funny  boy,"  she  murmured. 


VIOLETT  131 

"I  'm  not  a  boy  at  all.    I  am  a  man." 

"Then  stop  bothering  me  about  d'Orsay,  and 

say  some  poetry  to  me." 

Violett  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  began, 

almost  under  his  breath,  to  recite,  — 

"  Bid  me  to  live  and  I  will  live 
Thy  protestant  to  be." 

Minnie  dropped  the  little  shoe  and  listened,  her 
eyes  bent  on  her  hands. 

The  boy's  voice,  always  beautiful,  was  as  full  of 
melody  then  as  is  a  nightingale's.  When  he  came 
to  the  words  — 

"  Bid  me  to  weep  and  I  will  weep 
While  I  have  eyes  to  see  "  — 

his  hearer  raised  her  own  eyes,  that  had  seen  and 
understood  so  much  of  evil  for  years,  and  yet  were 
innocent,  and  looked  at  him,  while  her  lips  shook 
nervously,  and  his  eyes,  younger  in  some  ways,  yet 
full  of  the  wisdom  given  by  solitude,  held  hers 
until  he  had  ceased  speaking. 

There  was  a  long  pause,  and  then  Violett,  lay 
ing  his  hand  on  hers,  rose.  "Minnie  —  it  isn't 
d'Orsay,"  he  said  slowly,  "it  is  me." 

Bending,  he  kissed  her,  and  when  she  looked 
up,  brushing  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  her  face  was 
younger  by  years. 

"Yes,  Stevie,  it  is  you." 

They  sat  hand  in  hand  in  the  growing  dusk, 


132  VIOLETT 

their  young  heads  together,  in  an  almost  unbroken 
silence.  The  little  room's  walls  had  melted  away; 
they  were  in  a  new  land,  so  beautiful  that  they 
had  no  words  to  describe  it.  It  was  enough  just  to 
sit  close  and  think  together  of  the  same  wonderful 
thing. 

At  length  the  sound  of  mounting  footsteps 
aroused  them,  and  they  started  away  from  each 
other,  Minnie  fumbling  with  the  lamp,  Violett 
leaning  against  the  window,  looking  out  at  the 
world  of  misty  chimney  pots  that  had  succeeded  to 
his  Arcadia. 

"Good-evening,  Min;  are  you  ready ?" 

It  was  d'Orsay,  a  carnation  in  his  coat,  his 
newly  cut  hair  curled  and  scented.  Violett  won 
dered  why  he  had  ever  disliked  him,  and  turned 
cordially. 

"Isn't  it  a  —  a  beautiful  evening?"  he  asked, 
with  the  new  note  bubbling  in  his  voice. 

D'Orsay  stared.  "Clean  dotty,  aren't  you?" 
he  answered  at  length  with  a  laugh.  "It 's  a  vile 
evening,  drizzly  and  cold.  Heady,  Min?" 

Minnie  hesitated,  her  pretty  face  flushed.  "I 
promised  Mr.  Adams  he  might  take  me  to  the 
theatre  this  time,"  she  said. 

"You  promised  Mr.  d'Orsay  first,  then.  Mr. 
Adams  can  stay  and  admire  the  sunset  from  the 
window." 


VIOLETT  133 

Violett  did  not  protest.  Pie  was  not  jealous, 
and  used  as  he  was  to  solitude,  even  Minnie's  ab 
sence  at  that  moment  was  pleasant  rather  than 
otherwise.  When  the  other  two  had  gone  he  sat 
by  the  window  dreaming,  so  happy  that  he  almost 
wished  he  might  die,  for  it  lay  in  his  nature  uncon 
sciously  to  doubt  the  possibility  of  the  continuance 
of  such  divine  happiness.  He  sat  very  quiet,  until 
at  length  Bayne  awoke,  and  called  him. 

"Min  gone?" 

"Yes— Mr.  d'Orsay  fetched  her." 

The  sick  man  sighed,  and  Violett  went  on, 
going  to  the  bed  and  sitting  down  by  it,  "Mr. 
Bayne,  Minnie  is  going  to  marry  me." 

"You?   But  you  said"- 

"I  know.  But  there  is  the  island,  and  we  have 
always  lived  there,  Agnes  and  Michael  and  I." 

Bayne  frowned  nervously.  "  Live  there  always  ? 
—  Min  ?  It 's  an  abnormal  life  for  a  young  wo 
man,  and  she  's  used  to  excitement,  Min  is.  Does 
she  know  she  '11  'ave  to  live  there?" 

Violett  shook  his  head  and  smiled.  "She  won't 
care,  Mr.  Bayne.  We  shall  be  together  —  and  by 
the  sea." 

The  sick  man  fell  back  against  his  pillows  with 
the  sudden  acceptance  of  the  inexplicable  common 
to  children  and  very  ill  people. 

"I  am  glad,  Stevie;  I  'ave  'ated  this  rackety 


134  VIOLETT 

life  for  'er.  She  's  that  nervous  and  delicate  —  I 
am  glad." 

After  a  pause  he  added  suddenly,  "Stevie  — 
don't  tell  'er  about  —  your  father.  It  would  — 
frighten  'er.  She  ain't  strong,  you  know,  and  she 
'as  awful  screaming  fits." 

Violett  nodded,  and  went  back  to  the  window. 
He  knew  that  his  father's  crime  was  his;  that 
people  who  knew  could  not  like  him.  It  did  not 
seem  cruel  or  unfair  to  him,  for  he  was  used  to 
the  idea. 

"Very  well,"  he  said  after  a  pause,  "I  won't 
teU  her." 


Ill 

MAUDIE  COURTENAY  sat  on  the  floor,  putting  on 
a  pair  of  pale-blue  silk  stockings.  Her  plump 
shoulders  and  arms ,  liberally  sprinkled  with  scented 
powder,  gleamed  white  in  the  bright  light;  her 
chemise,  rich  with  lace  frills,  billowed  about  her 
like  the  petals  of  a  gigantic  flower.  It  was  at  the 
Regent's  Theatre  at  Plymouth,  early  in  January, 
and  the  first  night  of  "The  Gothic  King." 

Miss  Courtenay  (formerly  Miss  Maggie  Crumm) 
was  twenty-two  years  old,  and  had  been  on  the 
stage  since  she  was  seventeen,  but  this  was  her 
first  important  role.  As  the  young  queen  of  the 
Goths,  she  was  to  appear  in  a  splendid  garment 
of  purple  velvet,  liberally  trimmed  with  cat-fur 
and  gold  braid.  This  was  very  charming,  but  the 
best  was  that  she  was  in  half  an  hour  to  win  the 
heart  of  her  desperate  bridegroom,  King  Totila, 
who  in  a  state  of  siege  had  married  her  merely 
as  an  encouragement  to  his  soldiers. 

And  Miss  Courtenay  was  in  love  with  Violett, 
and  counted  much  on  the  opportunities  offered  by 
the  dramatic  situation  of  the  play. 

"Bless  'is  pretty  eyes,"  thought  the  girl,  as  she 
smoothed  the  last  wrinkle  from  her  stockings  and 
rose,  "I  bet  'e  gives  me  a  real  kiss  to-night." 


136  VIOLETT 

Violett,  in  his  room,  was  suffering  an  agony  of 
stage  fright,  while  his  dresser  bound  his  legs  with 
thongs,  and  he  gazed  at  himself  in  the  glass.  It  had 
not  occurred  to  him  that  he  would  be  frightened. 
The  whole  thing  had  been  strangely  impersonal 
until  to-night,  but  now  he  was  on  the  point  of 
breaking  down. 

The  straight  black  hair  of  his  long  wig  hung 
about  his  pale  young  face  and  gave  it  a  strange 
look.  His  sheepskin  garment  left  his  arms  bare 
in  their  youthful  thinness,  and  near  by  stood  his 
great  shield  and  sword. 

"Jones,"  he  said  at  length  to  his  dresser, 
"what  am  I  to  do?  I  can't  remember  one  word 
of  my  lines!  " 

Jones,  a  red-nosed  person  who  had  been  on  inti 
mate  terms,  to  believe  his  own  story,  with  every 
great  actor  of  the  past  half-century,  knotted  the 
thong  he  had  been  at  work  on,  and  rose. 

"Don't  you  worry,"  he  observed  comfortably, 
"they're  all  like  that  on  first-nights.  You'd 
orter  seed  Booth.  '  Jones,'  'e  useder  say,  '  I  'm  a 
lost  man !  I  've  clean  forgotten  my  lines ! '  Then 
I  'd  buck  'im  up  a  bit  and  it  'd  go  all  right." 

"I  wish  you  'd  buck  me  up  a  bit.  I  —  I  don't 
think  I  can  go  on." 

Jones  went  out,  and  soon  returned  with  a  glass 
of  beer.  "Drink  that,  Mr.  Haddams,  it 's  cheerin'. 


VIOLETT  137 

Kean  allus  stuck  to  beer,  not  too  cold,  which  it 
chills  the  inside." 

Violett  drank  the  beer  obediently,  and  Jones 
began  work  on  his  face. 

It  was  nearly  eight  o'clock,  and  in  a  few  min 
utes  the  call-boy  would  come. 

"  *  You  men  of  Goth  who  side  by  side  ' '  —  the 
boy  broke  off  —  "  '  who  side  by  side  '  -  -  Jones, 
give  me  the  book  there  under  the  curling  tongs. 
I 've  forgotten  it  all!" 

When  the  curtain  went  up  on  the  great  hall  in 
the  palace  at  Naples,  and  the  two  generals  had 
carefully  explained  the  situation  to  each  other,  two 
men  who  sat  in  the  stalls  together  smiled  and  shook 
their  heads. 

"Chaffee  is  the  greatest  fraud  that  ever  lived," 
said  the  one.  "Of  course  his  company  is  frankly 
third  rate,  but  he  swore  to  me  that  this  one  play 
was  worth  something." 

"Perhaps  it  is.  At  any  rate,  it  is  better  than 
poking  all  the  evening  at  the  hotel.  Hello,  who  's 
this?" 

Through  the  great  door  at  the  back  of  the  stage 
came  a  youth,  a  long  velvet  mantle  hung  over  his 
rough  fur  doublet.  He  walked  slowly,  haltingly, 
his  head  bent  on  his  breast,  and  stopped  in  the 
middle  of  the  stage.  Then  he  looked  up  and  said 
four  words,  "So  it  has  come." 


138  VIOLETT 

Arthur  Wauchope  sat  up. 

Violett  hesitated,  for  he  could  not  recall  his 
next  words,  and  to  help  himself  out  repeated  the 
first  ones,  "So  it  has  come!  " 

And  the  strange  beauty  of  his  voice  was  such  that 
one  might  have  heard  the  fall  of  the  usual  pin. 

Then  the  prompter's  voice  awfully  and  audibly 
gave  the  cue,  and  the  young  king  went  on  with  his 
soliloquy. 

The  play  was  absurd,  full  of  anachronisms,  of 
bombastic  speeches  and  impossible  situations,  but 
it  pleased  the  audience.  When  the  body  of  the 
centenarian  herald  was  brought  in  with  two  large 
arrows  in  his  breast,  and  the  king  wept,  Plymouth 
wept  with  him,  and  the  first  act  ended  to  a  thun 
der  of  applause. 

"The  king  is  not  bad,"  the  elder  of  the  two  men 
in  the  stalls  declared  to  his  friend. 

"  He  has  no  more  idea  of  acting  than  of  flying, 
but  he  has  a  voice !  I  never  heard  such  a  voice  in 
my  life,  except  Edwin  Booth's,  perhaps.  What 's 
his  name?  Adams,"  he  read  from  the  programme. 
"I  think  I  '11  go  behind  and  speak  to  him.  Will 
you  come?" 

Violett  was  sitting  on  a  bench  talking  to  his 
queen  when  the  manager  appeared,  very  much  flur 
ried,  to  introduce  the  great  Arthur  Wauchope  to 
him. 


VIOLETT  139 

The  boy,  who  had  taken  off  his  wig,  rose  and 
bowed  in  silence. 

"How  old  are  you?"  asked  the  actor-manager 
abruptly. 

"I  '11  be  nineteen  in  August." 

The  elder  of  the  two  strangers  here  came  for 
ward.  "Is  your  name  really  Adams?"  he  asked. 

Violett  hesitated.    "No." 

"Then  you  must  be  Violett  Maule —  are  you?  " 

"Yes." 

"I  am  Mr.  Barton,  Richard  Barton.  I  am  your 
guardian,  you  know." 

Maudie  Courtenay  listened  curiously. 

"I  know,"  Violett  answered.  "Please  don't 
talk  about  it  any  more." 

Wauchope  grew  impatient. 

"Will  you  come  to  see  me  to-morrow  at  the 
Eoyal?  I  have  several  things  to  say  to  you." 

"Thank  you.    Yes,  I  will  come." 

The  two  men  withdrew,  and  Maudie  turned  to 
Violett. 

"  Violet 's  your  name !  Perhaps  you  're  a  girl  in 
disguise  ?  That  fat  old  bird  your  guardian  ?  Well, 
I  must  s'y.  Perhaps  you  run  away  from  'ome  to 
go  on  the  stige?  " 

Violett  shook  his  head.  "No,  I  did  n't.  Please 
don't  talk  about  it,  Maudie." 

The  girl  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  left  him. 


i40  VIOLETT 

Chaffee,  who  had  just  come  back  from  accompany 
ing  his  distinguished  acquaintance  to  the  door, 
met  her. 

"This  is  a  go,"  he  declared,  his  face  red  with 
excitement.  "Guess  who  the  young  'un  is." 

Maudie  shook  her  head.  "  The  real  heir  of  the 
Prince  of  Wiles?" 

Chaffee  pinched  her  arm.  "Give  me  a  kiss  and 
I'll  tell  you." 

Maudie  complied  carelessly  with  his  request,  and 
ran  her  hand  through  his  arm. 

"Well?" 

"You  remember  the  poisoning  case  about  ten 
years  ago?  A  lighthouse-keeper  on  the  east  coast 
poisoned  a  child  with  sugar  and  swung  for  it? 
Well  —  that  was  Adams's  father!  " 

"Oh,  Gawd!" 

Maudie 's  remark  expressed  merely  horrified  ex 
citement.  "  Not  really !  " 

"Sure  thing.  The  old  bloke  with  Wauchope 
told  me.  He  told  me  not  to  mention  it,  so  don't 
give  it  away." 

The  girl  tossed  her  head.  "7  shan't  give  it 
aw'y." 

The  next  scene  was  in  the  tent  overlooking  the 
Gothic  defenses,  and  in  it  the  young  queen  won 
the  love  of  her  new  lord.  It  was  Maud  Courtenay's 
chance.  When  she  found  Totila  weeping  over  his 


VIOLETT  141 

shield,  and  laid  her  arm  on  his  shoulder  to  comfort 
him,  it  was  a  very  living  arm  and  a  close. 

Then,  when  they  shared  the  last  bit  of  bread  in 
the  royal  larder  and  she  picked  up  the  crumbs  and 
gave  them  to  him  on  her  palm,  he  should  have 
kissed  her.  The  boy  was  an  artist,  but  he  was 
not  an  actor,  and  he  loved  Minnie  Bayne,  so  the 
enforced  contact  with  this  other  girl  was  disagree 
able  to  him,  and  he  avoided  it  as  much  as  possible. 
At  length  two  generals  came  in  and  held  the  centre 
of  the  stage  for  a  few  minutes,  during  which  time 
the  king,  his  heart  full  of  new-born  love,  talked 
at  the  foot  of  the  throne  with  his  bride. 

"Put  your  arm  closer,"  the  bride  whispered. 
He  obeyed  mechanically,  and  as  he  did  so,  she 
swung  forward,  clasped  his  neck  with  her  free  arm, 
and  kissed  him  full  on  the  lips,  greatly  to  the  sat 
isfaction  of  the  audience. 

It  was  not  in  the  play,  and  Violett  shrank  away. 
"Don't!  "  he  said  sharply. 

"Oh,  Stephen,  don't  you  love  me  just  one 
little  bit?  "  she  whispered. 

"Oh,  don't!  No,  I  don't  love  you.  I  like  you 
very  much,  but "  — 

Bending,  she  caught  his  hand,  and  to  the  audi 
ence  sweetly  kissing  it,  buried  her  small  teeth 
deep  in  the  fleshy  part  of  the  palm. 

He  did  not  cry  out,  and  the  curtain  went  down. 


142  VIOLETT 

As  he  passed  to  his  room,  his  lips  pale  with 
pain,  Miss  Courtenay  stood  talking  excitedly  with 
a  little  group  of  warriors  and  ladies. 

"Hung,  I  tell  you,"  she  cried,  "  hung  till  his 
neck  broke!  /  don't  want  to  act  with  no  man  as 
has  poisoning  in  his  f  am'ly ;  it  might  be  'eredit'ry !  " 

The  listeners  laughed,  and  Violett  went  on,  his 
feet  dragging  like  leaden  things.  So  it  had  fol 
lowed  him  here,  too. 

The  last  act  went  fairly  well,  though  his  voice 
failed  queerly  from  time  to  time,  and  his  acting 
was  obviously  a  tour  de  force,  until  towards  the 
end,  when  he  had  to  divide  a  piece  of  bread, 
brought  him  by  a  faithful  slave,  between  his  bride 
and  a  dying  soldier. 

Breaking  the  crust,  he  held  out  half  to  the 
queen. 

"  '  This  quite  last  bit  of  Gothic  bread 
E'er  to  be  eaten  by  a  Goth  I  give 
To  you,  my  queen,  my  bride.'  " 

The  queen  took  it,  and  retired  to  the  back  of 
the  stage,  saying  audibly  to  the  king  and  the  war 
riors  and  ladies,  "No,  thank  you,  King  Violett;  I 
ain't  ready  to  die  yet  f  " 

There  was  a  sudden,  quickly  subdued  laugh,  and 
Violett  lost  his  head.  He  stammered,  forgot  his 
lines,  and  with  a  short  cry  rushed  from  the  stage. 


IV 

IT  was  raining  when  the  boy,  wrapped  in  a  long 
cloak  he  had  caught  up  in  passing,  left  the  theatre. 
The  streets  were  gleaming  with  the  lights,  the  cor 
ners  of  the  buildings  rounded  to  softness  by  the 
clinging  fog  that  crept  in  from  the  sea. 

The  chill  air  was  grateful  to  his  hot  face,  and 
the  tears  that  stood  on  his  lashes  dried  without 
falling. 

On  and  on  he  went,  walking  very  fast,  keeping 
in  the  shadow  as  much  as  possible,  darting  across 
the  street  or  into  some  blind  alley  to  avoid  an 
occasional  wayfarer. 

He  must  be  alone  —  alone  to  give  his  misery 
head  —  alone  to  suffer. 

His  aching  hand,  bound  in  a  handkerchief,  he 
held  to  his  breast,  and  with  the  other  he  gathered 
close  the  cloak  that  covered  his  stage  costume. 

He  was  not  angry,  even  with  the  woman  who 
had  so  cruelly  wounded  him;  the  laughter  of  the 
others  seemed  to  him  most  natural;  it  was  only 
that  once  more  the  fact  of  his  being  a  pariah  was 
brought  home  to  him  in  a  way  pitilessly  distinct, 
and  he  was  facing  as  a  man  for  the  first  time  what 
he  had  so  often  faced  as  a  child. 

Minnie  would  hear,  and  then  she  would  never 


144  VIOLETT 

see  him  again.  Or  rather,  she  couldn't  see  him 
again.  It  was  no  fault  of  hers,  and  she  would 
suffer  as  much  as  he. 

He  had  come  to  the  lower  part  of  the  town,  and 
out  on  to  the  Barbican.  To  his  right  slept  the 
tall  old  houses  ;  an  occasional  pot-house  window 
gleamed  through  the  mist;  to  his  left,  pale  water. 

Some  instinct  had  brought  him  there,  and  the 
voice  of  his  old  friend  comforted  him.  He  walked 
to  the  end  of  the  jetty,  passing  unconsciously  over 
the  stone  that  marks  the  place  from  which  the 
Mayflower  had  set  sail  so  long  ago,  and  sat  down, 
his  feet  hanging  over  the  water. 

He  tried  to  decide  what  to  do,  and  then  sud 
denly  everything  seemed  to  have  decided  itself. 

He  would  go  home,  go  back  to  Agnes  and  the 
Cradle,  go  back  where  nobody  mocked  him,  where 
he  could  be  alone. 

That  some  one  would  tell  Minnie  at  once,  he 
had  no  doubt ;  and  he  would  not  see  her  again. 

It  was  cowardice,  but  there  was  bravery  in  it. 
It  had  grown  with  his  growth,  nourished  by  the 
nature  of  his  life,  and  he  had  no  strength  to  fight. 

His  courage  was  of  the  passive  kind;  he  could 
bear  bravely,  in  silence,  all  that  might  come  to 
him,  but  he  could  not  fight,  and  he  could  not  see 
Minnie  shrink  from  him.  So  the  next  day,  when 
he  had  got  his  clothes,  and  been  stormed  at  and 


VIOLETT  145 

abused  by  the  indignant  Chaffee,  refusing  with  a 
gentle  obstinacy  even  to  try  the  role  once  more, 
the  boy  left  Plymouth,  and  went  home. 

It  was  evening  when  he  reached  St.  Kilian's  and 
made  his  way  to  Bob  Venn's  cottage.  The  fisher 
man,  whose  old  mother  had  been  his  companion  for 
years,  met  him  at  the  door  with  a  drawn  face  and 
red  eyes. 

"Mother  's  gone,  Vi'lett,"he  said,  too  much  ab 
sorbed  in  his  own  grief  to  notice  the  suddenness  of 
the  boy's  appearance.  "Her  went  Sunday." 

"Oh,  Bob!" 

"Yes.  And  I  'm  alone  now.  Come  in  an'  look 
at  'er.  She  's  jest  sleepin'  like." 

On  the  clean  white  bed  the  little  old  woman 
lay,  in  a  decent  black  gown,  her  hands  clasped  on 
her  breast. 

"She  grow'd  littler  and  littler  all  winter.  It 
weren't  a  sickness,  she  said;  it  were  jest  like  a 
tree  in  the  autumn,  dry  in'  up."  The  big  man  sat 
down  and  looked  at  his  dead. 

"It's  a  wonderful  thing,  a  mother,  Vi'lett,"  he 
went  on.  "Other  folks  can  love  you,  but  only  your 
mother  understands.  She  works  for  you,  looks 
after  you,  loves  you,  forgives  you  anything  you 
may  do,  understands  you,  and  then  the  only  thing 
bad  she  iver  does  to  you  is  to  die  an'  leave  you." 

Violett  nodded.   "  She  was  tired,  Bob,  perhaps  ?  " 


146  VIOLETT 

"Tired?  Not  her !  Not  my  old  wumman !  Tired 
o'  doing  for  me?  Nay,  nay,  lad,  you  never  had  a 
mother,  so  to  speak;  you  can't  know."  He  laid 
his  great  hand  very  gently  on  the  little  cold  folded 
ones. 

"Vi'lett,  I'm  a-goin'  to  bury  her  to-night. 
Will  'ee  come  along  an'  help  me?  " 

"To-night,  Bob  Venn?" 

"Yes.  No  passon  and  churchyard  for  her.  My 
father  was  drownded,  an'  she  loved  the  watter." 

"Are  you  going  to  —  to  drown  her?"  stam 
mered  the  boy. 

Venn  laughed.  "I  be  a-goin'  to  take  her  out 
in  my  boat,  an'  let  her  sink  down  through  God's 
clear  watter.  Then  when  I  'm  fishing,  or  coming 
home  in  the  sunset,  or  goin'  out  before  the  dawn, 
Vi'lett,  she  '11  be  near  me.  Will  'ee  come?  " 

"Yes,  I  '11  come." 

Venn  went  to  the  kitchen,  and  came  back  with 
three  flatirons.  "Weights,"  he  said,  simply  ex 
planatory.  "They've  served  her  many  a  time; 
they  shall  serve  her  this  once  more." 

He  handed  the  flatirons  to  the  boy,  and  then 
taking  a  gray  woolen  cloak  down  from  its  nail, 
laid  it  over  the  old  woman,  and  lifted  her  gently 
in  his  arms. 

It  was  but  a  step  from  the  cottage  down  the 
steep  path  to  the  shore,  and  a  few  yards  out  the 


VIOLETT  147 

little  boat  was  dancing  like  a  wraith  in  the  faint 
starlight. 

Venn  waded  in,  and  Violett  followed.  The  old 
woman  lay  in  the  stern,  decently  covered  with  her 
cloak,  as  the  boat,  its  anchor  pulled  up,  sped  away 
from  the  neighborhood  of  the  shore. 

Violett  sat  very  quiet,  watching  the  stars.  He 
was  glad  to  be  at  home,  and  the  sort  of  apathy 
that  had  come  over  him  was  not  unpleasing. 

He  would  help  Agnes,  who  knew  and  loved  him, 
he  would  help  Michael,  he  would  try  to  comfort 
Bob  Venn.  He  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  his 
recent  experience,  and  his  hand  ached. 

After  a  short  run  Venn  pulled  in  his  sail  and 
dropped  anchor. 

"This  will  do,"  he  said  briefly.  "The  cottage 
is  in  sight,  and  the  light,  and  I  can  pass  here  as 
often  as  I  like." 

He  uncovered  the  dead  woman's  quiet  face  and 
looked  at  her  for  a  moment.  Then  he  fastened  the 
flatirons  to  her  feet  and  waist,  and  lifted  her.  He 
did  not  speak  again,  and  his  eyes  were  dry.  When 
he  had  let  her  slip  gently  out  of  his  arms  into  the 
waiting  water  there  was  a  short  pause. 

"Strange,  Vi'lett,"  he  said,  at  last,  looking  to 
wards  the  quiet  stars,  "I  sent  her  down,  but  she  's 
gone  straight  up  yonder !  " 

The  boat  skimmed  onward  towards  the  island, 


148  VIOLETT 

where  the  great  steady  light  glowed  against  the 
sky. 

"Have  you  come  back  for  good,  Vi'lett?" 

The  boy  started. 

"Yes,  Bob  Venn." 

"Was  it  —  very  bad?" 

"Yes.    Bad  enough." 

"Because  of  —  that  which  you  can't  help?" 

"Yes.  People  can't  stand  it,  you  see.  It  is  too 
bad.  You  and  Agnes  and  Michael  don't  mind, 
though,  do  you?" 

"No,  an'  my  old  wumman  neither,  she  didn't 
mind,  and  I  tell  you,  Vi'lett,  gentlemen  and  ladies 
wouldn't  mind  either.  It 's  the  other  kind  of  peo 
ple  as  can't  stand  it.  It 's  main  sad  you  be  n't  a 
gentleman,  for  then  no  one  'd  bring  it  up  'gainst 
you.  God  makes  all  people  equal,  that 's  true.  All 
little  bare  babies  is  equal,  but  he  lets  'em  grow  up 
very  unequal,  an'  the  ones  that  grow  up  ladies 
and  gentlemen  understands  better." 

Violett  looked  wistfully  at  him. 

"Yes,  I  wish  I  was  a  gentleman,"  he  said. 


Two  days  after  his  return,  Violett  was  at  work 
making  some  slight  repairs  to  one  of  the  wicks  of 
the  great  light. 

It  was  a  mild  day,  full  of  the  trouble  of  early 
spring,  though  it  was  only  January.  The  boy  sat 
on  the  floor  of  the  little  platform,  the  sky  blue 
above  him,  but  his  heart  heavy  in  his  breast. 

Even  to  his  passive,  patient  nature,  renunciation 
was  hard ;  and  he  had  renounced  not  only  Minnie, 
but,  it  seemed  to  him,  life  itself. 

He  had  once  more  proved  that  his  father's  act 
had  put  him,  the  son,  beyond  the  pale,  —  that  the 
only  place  left  for  him  was  the  island.  And  he 
was  eighteen  years  old.  He  recalled,  as  he  worked, 
the  hours  passed  with  Minnie  by  her  father's  bed 
side,  the  evenings  when  she  had  come  home  tired 
from  the  theatre,  and  his  had  been  the  privilege  of 
preparing  a  little  supper  for  her. 

One  Sunday  they  had  walked  in  the  Park,  and 
Minnie  had  told  him  who  some  of  the  occupants 
of  the  beautiful  carriages  were,  for  she  was  well 
informed  about  many  things  of  which  he,  of  course, 
was  utterly  ignorant. 

Another  Sunday  they  had  walked  on  the  Em 
bankment,  in  the  evening,  and  watched  the  lights 


150  VIOLETT 

bursting  out  of  the  misty  gloom.  The  magic  of 
that  hour  in  a  great  city  is  very  strong  to  such 
natures  as  the  boy's;  the  mystery  of  human  life 
wonderful,  as  the  passers-by  disappear,  never  to  be 
seen  again,  —  the  rich  and  the  poor,  the  happy 
and  the  miserable. 

It  had  struck  Violett,  he  remembered,  that  one 
could  count  in  the  absent  on  the  regular  fulfilling 
of  but  two  things,  their  eating  and  their  sleeping. 
In  that  all  men  are  alike. 

What  Minnie  was  doing  he  could  not  tell,  but 
he  knew  she  drank  coffee  at  half-past  eight,  ate 
meat  at  noon,  and  tea  and  bread  and  butter  before 
the  sleep  in  which  she  must  sometimes  dream  of 
him. 

The  sound  of  Michael's  slow  footsteps  toiling  up 
the  stairs  roused  him  from  his  reverie. 

"  Vi'lett,  Vi'lett,"  the  old  man  began,  before  his 
head  had  appeared  out  of  the  darkness,  "a  tele 
gram  for  'ee! " 

Then  the  lined  old  face  appeared,  served  up  on 
his  red  muffler  as  on  a  plate,  his  eyes  gleaming 
with  curiosity. 

"'Violett  Maule,  Maule  Island,  St.  Kilian's, 
Xshire.'  That's  you,  Vi'lett.  Now  open  it  and 
let 's  see  who  be  a-sendin'  us  telegrams." 

Violett  took  the  dispatch  and  opened  it  with  icy 
fingers.  It  was  the  first  he  had  ever  seen  in  his  life. 


VIOLETT  151 

"Please  come  back.  —  Minnie." 

With  a  cry,  he  crushed  the  paper  to  his  lips, 
and  rushed  down  the  dark  stairs  at  a  break-neck 
speed.  He  was  to  go  back !  She  wanted  him ! 

He  flew  through  the  muddy  garden  and  down 
the  path,  hardly  knowing  whither  he  was  bound, 
and  then,  when  he  found  himself  close  to  the  sea, 
lay  down  in  the  warm,  wet  sand,  and  cried  his 
heart  out. 

The  waves  whispered,  "Minnie."  A  great  gull 
that  whirred  above  him  rejoiced  with  him.  The 
very  sky  was  blue  and  light  with  sympathy. 

The  boy  rose  at  length,  and  returned  to  the 
house,  where  old  Agnes  sat  patiently  waiting  for 
an  explanation. 

"Agnes,"  he  said,  kissing  her  worn  cheek,  "I 
am  going  to  be  married." 

"Married!  You  married,  Vi'lett?  Bless  and 
save  us,  lad,  have  'ee  lost  your  wits?  " 

"To  Minnie  —  Minnie  Bayne.  Agnes,"  he 
added  solemnly,  "she  is  an  angel." 

Agnes  had  never  seen  Minnie,  but  she  had  all 
a  woman's  natural  distrust  of  the  unknown  woman 
loved  by  a  dear  man. 

"Women  be  n't  angels,  Vi'lett,"  she  said,  pass 
ing  her  hand  over  his  face  and  feeling  his  tremu 
lous  smile.  "I  pray  she  is  a  good  girl,  and  that 
will  suffice." 


152  VIOLETT 

"She  is  a  good  girl.  And  oh,  she  is  so  beauti 
ful,  Agnes!  If  only  you  could  see  her!  " 

He  sat  down  on  his  little  old  stool,  his  knees 
under  his  chin,  his  hand  in  the  old  woman's. 
"Shall  I  tell  you  what  she  looks  like?  " 

"Ay,  tell  me,  dearie." 

The  clock  drowsed  in  the  corner,  the  low  fire 
glowed,  and  Violett  described  his  lady. 

"She  is  small,  Agnes,  slight,  with  narrow  feet 
and  hands  —  oh,  her  little  pointed  fingers!  Her 
hair  is  yellow  like  ripe  corn,  but  with  a  lustre  like 
sunlight.  Her  face  is  small  and  white,  with  dark 
eyebrows,  each  like  a  tiny  feather,  and  her  eyes 
are  blue,  dark  blue,  like  the  sea,  sometimes  almost 
purple,  sometimes  almost  gray.  Her  nose  —  I 
never  noticed  her  nose,"  he  added  dreamily,  "but 
her  mouth !  Ah,  the  dear  mouth !  It  is  pink,  and 
smooth  like  a  rose  leaf,  and  curved  like  the  inside 
of  a  shell.  It  is  warm  —  and  sweet "  — 

He  broke  off,  staring  into  the  fire. 

"A  young  maid's  mouth,  Vi'lett,  to  the  lad  that 
loves  her,"  remarked  Agnes  gently,  a  smile  in  her 
blind  eyes.  "Now  tell  me  about  her  heart." 

"Ah,  she  is  kind  and  gentle  and  loving.  She 
is  busy  and  quiet  and  cheerful,  and  sometimes  very 
tired,  when  she  must  sit  quite  still,  with  her  little 
hands  idle.  Then  the  dear  shadows  under  her  eyes 
are  darker,  and  the  corners  of  her  mouth  droop." 


VIOLETT  153 

"Weakly  like?" 

"Yes.  She  is  not  strong.  Every  night  she  must 
sing  —  in  a  theatre,  you  know.  Once  I  went  to 
hear  her.  There  were  a  great  many  girls  singing 
together,  but  I  could  hear  her  voice  above  all  the 
others." 

"She  is  a  play-actress?"  asked  Agnes  very 
gently,  to  hide  the  sudden  pang  that  smote  her. 

"Yes.  Of  course.  You  knew  that  Mr.  Bayne 
was." 

"I  had  forgotten.  And  when  you  are  married, 
Violett,  where  shall  you  live?  " 

"Live?   I  don't  know.    Together." 

She  had  n't  the  heart  to  insist.  He  had  no 
plans;  that  she  saw.  Always  vague,  he  was  now 
in  his  enveloping  happiness  vaguer  than  ever.  In 
silence  they  sat  by  the  dying  fire,  each  occupied 
with  the  thought  of  the  little  chorus  girl  in  Lon 
don. 

And  the  sun  went  down,  and  night  crept  in  from 
the  sea. 


VI 

WHEN  Violett  arrived  in  London  the  second  time, 
he  was  met,  to  his  great  delight,  by  Mrs.  Bayne, 
resplendent  in  an  olive  plush  mantle  and  a  very 
plumy  bonnet. 

"My  dear  boy  —  I  may  say,  my  dear  sou,"  she 
began  majestically,  extending  to  him  a  fat  hand 
in  a  soiled  white  kid  glove,  "welcome!"  And  if 
the  mayor  and  corporation  had  offered  him  the 
freedom  of  the  city  on  a  purple  cushion,  the  boy 
could  not  have  been  prouder. 

"Bayne  being  still  confined  to  his  room,"  the 
senora  went  on,  as  they  left  the  station  and  stood 
waiting  for  the  enchanted  'bus  that  was  to  fly  with 
them  to  Minnie's  side,  "I  decided  to  come  myself 
to  meet  you,  for  as  I  said  to  Bayne,  '  James,  this 
is  no  hordinary  occasion. ' ' 

The  'bus  stopped,  and  the  senora  being  with 
some  difficulty  hoisted  to  a  position  sufficiently 
elevated  to  satisfy  her  sense  of  dignity,  she  went 
on :  "  Minnie  being  our  honly  child,  since  the  loss 
of  our  hever  to  be  lamented  Reginald,  the  givin' 
of  'er  hup  is  not  easy,  Stevie,  but  when  two  loving 
'earts  loves  each  other,  what  am  I  to  hinterfere?  " 

Violett  beamed  gratefully  at  her.  '"''Dear  Se 
nora,"  he  said,  "I  can't  thank  you  for  being  so 


VIOLETT  155 

good  to  me ;  you  were  always  good  to  me,  but  I 
am  grateful,  — indeed,  indeed  I  am." 

The  senora  bowed  in  her  most  stately  manner. 
"I  believe  it,  Stevie." 

A  wag  on  the  box  seat  here  turned,  and  lifting 
his  hat  began  jabbering  veiy  rapidly  and  quite  in 
comprehensibly  to  either  the  lady  or  Violett. 

"Wot's  that  yer  saying?"  she  asked,  divided 
between  offense  and  curiosity. 

"Aw,  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am.  I  understood 
the  young  gent  to  call  you  senora,  and  as  I  'm  a 
Spaniard,  I  could  n't  resist  the  chawnce  for  a  few 
words  in  my  nitive  tongue." 

He  was  so  obviously  a  Briton  that  every  one 
laughed,  except  the  senora,  whose  retort  was  much 
to  the  point,  if  not  over-civil,  and  Violett,  who 
flushed  painfully  and  wished  he  had  n't  heard  what 
she  said. 

All  feelings  of  discomfort  fled,  however,  a  few 
minutes  later,  when  the  'bus  stopped,  and  he  and 
the  senora  clambered  down  into  the  beautiful  mud. 
Minnie,  Minnie! 

The  young  girl  was  sitting  with  her  father  when 
they  came  in,  and  when  Violett's  first  breathless 
ecstasy  was  over,  he  was  startled  to  find  her  look 
ing  very  ill.  The  purple  shadows  under  her  eyes 
had  deepened  to  a  dark  brown;  her  lips  were  of 
the  palest  salmon  color. 


156  VIOLETT 

"Pining  for  you,  Stevie.  Oh,  you  men!"  ob 
served  the  senora,  waggishly  reproachful. 

The  boy  drew  the  girl  to  the  window. 

"Was  it  really  that,  Minnie?"  he  asked,  his 
brows  knit  with  anxiety. 

"Yes  —  no.  I  don't  know.  It  was  unkind  of 
you  to  go  away  like  that." 

"  But  —  you  knew  why  ?  " 

"Yes,  Mr.  Chaffee  told  father.  It  was  silly  of 
you  to  break  down,  Stevie,  but  —  you  needn't 
have  run  away.  It  didn't  make  any  difference 
to  me." 

His  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  his  heart  smote 
him. 

"  I  thought  —  you  would  hate  me,  —  that  you 
would  n't  be  able  to  stand  it." 

"Min!"  called  the  senora,  who  had  taken  off 
her  boots  and  was  resting  her  feet  on  the  bed,  "I 
'ope  you  've  something  nice  for  supper?" 

Minnie  left  the  window  and  set  the  table,  while 
Violett  sat  down  by  his  future  parents-in-law. 

"You  must  have  thought  me  very  — foolish  to 
run  away,"  he  began  with  some  difficulty,  "but 
I  thought  she  'd  never  care  to  see  me  again." 

"My  dear  boy,  it  was  stage  fright.  Just  that 
and  nothing  more.  All  us  hartists  'as  'ad  it," 
answered  the  senora. 

"Yes,  but  I  meant"  — 


VIOLETT  157 

She  held  up  a  warning  forefinger.  "Sstf  It 
don't  do  to  talk  about  it,  my  dear.  Let  bygones 
bury  their  dead.  Min  is  very  nervous,  so  don't 
you  worry  'er  about  your  father's — misfortune. 
Why,  she  cried  for  hours  the  other  day  about  a 
child  that  fell  into  a  vat  of  b'iling  liquid.  As  the 
liquid  was  b'iling,  the  child  was  naturally  b'iled 
too.  But  it  gave  Min  the  'errors,  reg'lar." 

"But  —  she  does  know? "he  persisted  gently. 
"I  mean,  my  real  name,  and  about  —  my  father? " 

"Of  course  she  knows,  or  'ow  could  she  'ave 
sent  you  that  dispatch,"  returned  the  senora,  with 
a  genial  disregard  of  consequences.  "So  don't  you 
be  a  stoopid  and  upset  her.  She  says  to  me,  '  Ma, 
don't  let  'im  talk  about  it;  that 's  all  I  hask.' ' 

Bayne  tossed  his  hands  nervously  on  the  bed- 
quilt.  "Do  what  Dooloars  tells  you,  Stevie,"  he 
said.  "She  knows  Min,  and  if  you  want  'er  you  've 
got  to  be  careful." 

Violett  was  content,  and  when  the  little  sup 
per  was  ready,  they  all  ate  it  with  much  pleasure. 

"Weal-an'-'am  pie  is  a  dish  as  cawn't  be  beat, 
to  my  mind,"  observed  the  senora,  helping  herself 
for  the  third  time,  "and  with  a  good  glass  of  beer, 
what  more  can  the  queen  'erself,  Gawd  bless  'er, 
ask  for?" 

Minnie  was  very  gentle  with  her  father,  feeding 
him  milk  with  a  spoon,  holding  his  poor  skull-like 


158  VIOLETT 

head  when  the  dreadful  coughing  fits  came,  and 
soothing  him  with  loving  words. 

Violett  wished  Agnes  was  there. 

After  supper  Minnie  and  he  went  into  the  other 
room  and  washed  the  dishes  by  candle-light.  It 
being  Sunday,  there  was  no  opera;  and  washing 
dishes  by  candle-light  is  an  occupation  for  the 
gods.  The  play,  Minnie  told  the  boy,  had  only 
been  given  once  more,  but  was  to  rejoice  the  in 
habitants  of  Devonport  that  week.  "Mr.  Briggs 
is  doing  the  king,  you  know.  I  had  a  letter  from 
Maudie  yesterday." 

Violett's  heart  sank.  "I  have  an  idea  that 
Maudie  didn't  exactly  hate  you,  Stevie,"  the  girl 
went  on,  turning  a  glass  round  and  round  in  the 
folds  of  her  dish-towel.  "Now  did  she?  " 

Violett  blushed.  "Why  should  she  hate  me?" 
he  asked. 

The  young  girl  took  the  candle  and  held  it  to 
his  face.  "Oh,  you  wicked  boy,  you  are  blushing! 
Did  she  make  love  to  you?  Come,  tell  me." 

He  took  the  candle  and  set  it  down  on  the  table, 
then  he  kissed  her.  So  much  nature  taught  him. 
Then  he  blundered. 

"You  know  I  love  only  you,  Min,"  he  said, 
much  too  seriously.  "Don't  tease  me." 

And  Minnie,  nervous,  overworked  all  her  life, 
tired  now  from  nursing  her  father,  burst  into  a 


VIOLETT  159 

wild  sobbing  that  frightened  him  nearly  out  of  his 
wits. 

"Min,  Min,  don't!  Don't  cry,  darling.  Why 
are  you  crying?" 

But  she  pushed  him  away,  and  rushing  into  the 
next  room,  flung  herself  into  her  mother's  arms, 
shrieking  that  Stevie  loved  Maud  Courtenay  and 
was  false. 

The  senora's  motherly  dignity  was  wonderful. 
She  carried  the  girl  into  the  bedroom,  closed  the 
door,  and  left  Violett  alone  with  Bayne,  who  was 
almost  too  weak  to  talk,  but  who  managed  to  ar 
ticulate,  — 

"  She  is  ill,  Violett.   I  told  you  not  to  worry  her. " 

"But  I  didn't  mention  my  father  to  her!  It 
was  all  about  Maud." 

A  faint  smile  stirred  the  sick  man's  dry  lips.  It 
was  a  fly  in  the  ointment,  but  not  a  very  bad  one. 

The  next  day  the  young  girl  was  sweet  and 
sorry,  and  Violett 's  heart  full  almost  to  the  burst 
ing-point. 

That  evening  the  senora  asked  him  what  plans 
he  was  making  for  the  future. 

"Plans?"  His  eyes  were  perfectly  vague  as  he 
looked  up  at  her. 

" Plans  —  yes  —  for  the  wedding." 

It  had  never  occurred  to  him  to  arrange  a  wed 
ding  day.  He  was  so  happy  in  the  present  that  the 


160  VIOLETT 

future  seemed  to  be  quite  capable  of  taking  care 
of  itself. 

"The  wedding!" 

The  senora  laughed.  "The  wedding.  Bayne 
can't  last  much  longer,  and  he  'd  like  to  see  Min 
married  —  would  n't  you,  Bayne?  " 

Violett  looked  with  frightened  eyes  at  the  sick 
man,  who,  however,  merely  nodded. 

"I  am  ready,  any  time,"  the  boy  went  on. 

"Then  let  us  say  a  week  from  Wednesday?" 

"Yes,"  said  Violett. 

The  big  woman  looked  at  him  and  shook  her 
head.  "You  are  'opeless,  Stevie.  Who's  a-goin' 
to  get  yer  license?  You  don't  know  no  more  about 
getting  married  than  a  bibe  in  arms !  " 

Violett  laughed  shamefacedly,  and  the  senora 
rose.  "We  '11  talk  it  over  to-morrow,  and  now  it 
is  eleven  o'clock,  and  I  am  weary." 

Violett  took  the  hint  and  went  out  to  the  land 
ing  to  wait  for  Minnie,  who  must  soon  be  coming. 

He  sat  down  on  the  dusty  stairs,  in  the  dark 
ness,  and  leaned  his  head  on  his  hand.  In  ten 
days  he  was  to  be  married.  The  house  was  very 
still.  Once  a  door  closed ;  once  a  clock  struck. 

It  never  occurred  to  the  boy  that  it  would  be 
better  for  Minnie  not  to  come  home  alone  or  with 
some  casual  companion,  at  eleven  o'clock  at  night. 

Once  he  had  fetched  her  at  the  theatre,  but  she 


VIOLETT  161 

had  begged  him  not  to  do  so  again,  as  the  girls 
teased  her  about  him.  So  he  sat  in  the  darkness 
waiting  for  her,  and  at  last  she  came,  alone. 

She  was  very  tired,  and  cried  a  little  from  sheer 
fatigue,  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  as  they  sat  hud 
dled  together,  talking. 

It  was  as  much  an  idyl  to  her,  poor  child,  as  it 
was  to  him,  his  honest,  boyish  love  falling  like 
moonlight  on  her  sordid  life,  and  making  it  beau 
tiful. 

At  last  they  kissed  each  other  good-night,  and 
separated,  Violett  going  to  his  little  room  under  the 
roof,  to  sit  another  hour  by  the  window,  dreaming. 


VII 

THE  wedding  was  to  be  on  Wednesday,  and  Mon 
day  morning  found  the  senora  very  busy  making 
preparations  for  the  breakfast. 

The  little  kitchen,  dark  even  at  midday,  was 
illuminated  with  the  big  lamp,  and  the  senora  her 
self  sat  at  the  table,  her  trailing  silken  garments 
folded  snugly  about  her  waist,  and  covered  with  a 
blue  checked  apron,  polishing  the  silver.  Opposite 
her  sat  Maudie  Courtenay,  just  back  in  town  after 
a  big  smash-up  of  the  company  in  Liverpool,  who 
had  come  to  invite  the  wedding  party  to  a  supper 
the  next  evening. 

"Chaffee  done  'is  best,  it 's  only  fair  to  say,  but 
the  company  was  too  rotten.  Even  the  smaller 
towns  could  n't  stand  Miss  de  Vere.  That  woman 
always  'ad  a  cold  in  'er  nose,  and  'er  snuffling  was 
something  'omt£." 

The  senora  straightened  a  fork  that  she  had  bent 
in  the  energy  of  her  polishing. 

"Law,  not  reely! " 

"Yes.  She  was  a  reg'lar 'orror."  Miss  Courte 
nay  hesitated  for  a  second  and  then  went  on,  — 

"Say,  Senora,  what  does  Min  think  about 
Stevie's  father?" 

"  'Is  father?   'Is  father  's  dead." 


VIOLETT  163 

"I  know.  Oh,  I  know  all  about  it.  I  should 
think  it  'd  give  'er  the  creeps,  though,  poor  dear. 
'Anging  is  so  awful." 

The  senora  was  startled,  but  her  splendid  com 
posure  stood  her  in  good  stead.  "Dreadful,"  she 
assented,  breathing  on  the  bowl  of  a  spoon,  and 
then  rubbing  it  vigorously.  "But  that  was  Maule 
as  was  'ung,  my  love." 

"Well,  Stevie's  name  is  Violett  Maule." 

"It  is;  but  Minnie  does  not  know  it." 

"You  don't  mean  that  she  doesn't  know  'is 
name  isn't  Adams! " 

"No.  You  see,  she  's  dreadful  sensitive,  Min 
is,  and  me  '11'  'er  fawther  thought  it  best  not  to 
shock  her." 

"But  he  can't  be  married  under  a  false  nime! " 
cried  the  erstwhile  Gothic  queen  shrewdly. 

"Of  course  he  can't.  Any  idiot  knows  that. 
But  we  decided  to  tell  'er  the  evening  before  the 
wedding,  that  is,  to-morrow,  that  he 's  'ad  to 
change  'is  name  on  account  of  the  money.  See?" 

"Money?   What  money?  " 

The  seuora  rose,  and  taking  off  her  apron,  al 
lowed  her  gown  to  fall  into  its  usual  classic  folds, 
before  answering  with  some  pomp,  "Didn't  you 
know  'e  'ad  nearly  twelve  thousand  pounds?  " 

"That  boy?" 

Maudie's  chin  dropped,  her  mouth  hanging  half 
open. 


164  VIOLETT 

"Nearly  twelve  thousand  pounds?  " 

"Then  why  in  the  name  of  goodness  does  he 
wear  such  hawful  clothes?  An'  not  a  single 
ring!" 

The  senora  hesitated.  Then  she  said,  deciding 
against  the  splendid  dramatic  possibilities  of  a  story 
of  a  recent  inheritance,  "It 's  a  long  story.  Mr. 
Wauchope,  who  is  a  great  friend  of  Stevie's,  told 
Mr.  Bayne.  They  are  going  to  live  at  Stevie's 
place,  on  the  east  coast." 

But  this  was  too  much  for  Maudie. 

"Place!  Plice,  indeed!  'Is  father  was  a  light- 
keeper;  I  know  that  much,  Mrs.  Bayiie." 

"Well,  an'  cawn't  a  lighthouse  be  called  a 
place,  Miss  Crumm  ?  " 

Before  the  outraged  Miss  Courtenay  could  re 
tort,  Bayne  called  from  the  next  room,  and  the 
senora  swept  splendidly  out  of  the  kitchen. 

"Don't  fight  her,  Dooloars,"  the  sick  man  whis 
pered,  catching  her  hand  in  his  hot  one.  "She  '11 
give  the  whole  thing  away  to  Min." 

The  senora  nodded.  "I  '11  make  it  up  with  'er, 
Jim.  Min  won't  be  back  until  late,  anyhow." 

"And  where  's  the  boy?  " 

"  'E  's  coming  any  minute  now." 

Bayne  lay  still  on  his  hot  pillows.  The  wedding 
was  to  be  the  next  day  but  one,  and  to  the  tired 
man  it  seemed  as  if  with  it  came  his  deliverance. 


VIOLETT  165 

Minnie  once  married,  he  could  die  in  peace. 
The  girl's  weak,  fanciful,  over-nervous  nature  her 
father  knew,  perhaps  because  of  some  subtle  re 
semblance  in  it  to  his  own,  better  than  any  one  in 
the  world. 

D'Orsay  saw  one  side  of  it,  the  foolish,  admira 
tion-loving,  coquettish  side ;  her  mother  the  artistic 
side,  full  of  the  laziness  in  practical  things  common 
to  the  small,  uneducated  artist;  Violett,  with  his 
loving  young  eyes,  saw  the  girl  as  she  might  have 
been, — affectionate,  simple,  and  truthful. 

Only  Bayne,  and  he  only  since  he  had  been 
forced  by  illness  to  the  leisure  that  gave  him  time 
for  hours  of  reflection,  saw  all  the  sides  combined 
into  a  whole. 

And  in  his  wisdom  he  had  allowed  his  wife  to 
do  what  she  did  out  of  motives  very  different  from 
her  own.  It  was  perfectly  indifferent  to  the  se- 
Sora  whether  or  no  all  of  her  future  son-in-law's 
forbears  had  been  hanged  or  not.  The  point  was 
that  Violett  wanted  to  marry  Minnie,  was  fond  of 
her,  and  best  and  most  important  of  all,  had 
money. 

Until  she  learned,  through  Wauchope's  careless 
recital  of  Barton's  story,  of  the  money,  she  had 
been  keenly  for  d'Orsay,  who  was  to  her  mind  a 
handsome  and  smart  man  of  talent. 

Violett 's  fortune,  however,  swung  the  balance 


166  VIOLETT 

around,  and  knowing  that  Minnie  would  shrink 
from  the  boy  if  she  knew  his  father's  story,  she 
had  contrived  to  make  him  think  that  it  was  known 
to  the  girl,  but  that  she  did  not  wish  to  talk  of  it. 

Then  she  would  tell  Minnie  that  Stevie  had 
changed  his  name  to  obtain  a  large  fortune ;  in  the 
hurry  of  the  wedding  day  there  would  be  no  time 
for  questioning,  and  once  married,  they  could  fight 
it  out. 

"Min  '11  screech  a  bit,  as  she  did  over  that 
grave-robbing  story,  but  she  '11  quiet  down  all 
right,"  she  told  her  husband  comfortably,  and  he, 
relieved  from  his  great  anxiety  regarding  d'Orsay, 
whom  he  had  always  distrusted,  and  seeing  no 
other  way  out  of  the  difficulty,  held  his  peace. 

"After  all,"  he  thought  that  morning,  while  the 
sound  of  the  senora's  most  imposing  voice,  as  she 
made  peace  with  Miss  Courtenay,  reached  him  at 
intervals,  "she  does  love  him  in  her  way,  and 
once  away  from  London,  away  from  d'Orsay  "  — 
He  broke  off,  for  even  in  his  thoughts  he  hated  to 
admit  that  his  daughter  seemed,  even  while  the 
best  in  her  clung  to  Violett,  strongly  attracted  by 
the  actor's  dark  face.  D'Orsay  continued  coming 
to  see  her,  and  to  bring  her  home  from  the  theatre, 
in  spite  of  the  engagement,  on  which  he  had  po 
litely  congratulated  the  instantly  propitiated  Vio 
lett  ;  and  more  than  once  Bayne,  lying  unobserved 


VIOLETT  167 

in  his  bed,  had  noticed  glances  between  the  older 
man  and  his  daughter  that  he  disliked.  Then 
Minnie  had  frequently  come  home  with  a  gardenia 
on  her  breast,  and  d'Orsay  was  rarely  without  one 
of  the  hatefully  sweet  flowers. 

"Yes,  it  is  the  only  thing  to  do,"  he  decided,  too 
tired  to  think  further;  "it  will  be  all  right." 

As  he  closed  his  eyes  and  allowed  himself  to 
sink  into  the  stupor-like  sleep  he  so  often  had  to 
fight  against,  Violett  came  in,  a  bunch  of  gera 
niums  in  his  hand. 

"From  home,  Mr.  Bayne!  Agnes  sent  them  to 
Minnie.  She  must  have  quite  ruined  all  her 
pots!" 

He  held  the  brilliant  things  to  the  sick  man's 
face,  and  then,  as  he  turned,  the  senora  came  in 
with  Maud  Courtenay. 

Violett  started.  He  had  not  seen  the  girl  since 
the  night  in  Plymouth. 

She,  however,  met  him  with  a  smile  and  an 
outstretched  hand. 

" '  Dear  king,  my  lord,  mine  eyes  are  full  of 
light  in  seeing  thee,'  "  she  quoted.  "I  'm  glad  to 
be  in  time  for  the  wedding!  The  senora  'as  just 
invited  me." 

The  boy  stared  at  her  in  honest  silence.  He 
hated  seeing  her :  she  reminded  him  of  one  of  the 
most  painful  events  in  his  life,  and  worst  of  all, 


168  VIOLETT 

she  would  remind  Minnie  of  things  he  had  been 
warned  not  to  mention  to  her. 

Minnie  had  of  late  been  so  nervous,  so  irrita 
ble  even,  at  times,  that  he  had  been  afraid  she 
herself  would  begin  on  the  subject.  She  had  not 
done  this,  however,  and  the  senora  had  told  him, 
with  a  wonderful  air  of  motherly  mystery,  that 
Minnie  was  agitated  at  the  prospect  of  being  mar 
ried,  and  leaving  her  parents. 

"Glad  to  see  me,  Mr.  Maule?"  went  on  Miss 
Courtenay,  "or  I  suppose  you  are  still  Mr. 
Hadams  ? " 

Violett,  to  whom  the  telling  of  the  story  of  his 
assumed  name  had  been  very  painful,  glanced  at 
the  senora,  who  was  heating  a  curling  iron  at  the 
fire. 

"Of  course  not,  my  dear,"  that  lady  explained 
graciously;  "but  we  all  still  call  him  Stevie.  Vi 
olett  is  such  a  extrawnery  nime  for  a  man." 

The  girl  nodded,  and  held  out  her  hand  to 
Violett. 

"  Well,  good-by  for  the  present.  I  —  I'm  sorry 
1  was  so  disagreeable  at  Plymouth,  Stevie.  I  only 
wanted  to  be  pl'yful,  and  you  didn't  understand." 

As  she  left  the  room,  the  boy  looked  half  invol 
untarily  at  his  hand,  on  which  two  still  reddish 
marks  remained  as  a  souvenir  of  her  playfulness. 


VIII 

THE  senora,  Minnie,  and  Violett  arrived  together 
at  Miss  Courtenay's,  —  the  senora,  resplendent  in 
a  peacock  blue  gown  thickly  sown  with  spangles, 
facetiously  explaining  that  it  was  not  strange,  their 
simultaneous  appearance,  as  they  had  left  home 
together. 

"Charming  room,  Miss  Courtenay,"  the  great 
lady  went  on,  with  the  graciousness  peculiar  to 
her,  "them  folding  beds  is  most  convenient." 

The  table  was  spread,  and  garnished  with  a 
large  bouquet  of  roses  in  a  blue  jar. 

"D'Orsay  sent  me  the  flowers,"  Maudie  ex 
plained,  with  a  side  glance  at  Minnie,  who  sat, 
very  pale,  with  nervously  clasped  hands,  by  the 
window. 

"Always  the  gentleman,  d'Orsay,"  approved 
the  senora.  "Ain't  'e  coming?" 

Maudie  smiled.  "Trust  'im!  Of  course  'e 's 
coming.  Ain't  'e  the  best  man?" 

Minnie  started.  "No,  he  ain't,  Maudie  —  he 
ain't  the  best"  — 

Maudie  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter.  "  Now 
don't  you  chew  the  rag,  my  ducky.  Of  course 
your  Tim  —  Stevie  is  the  best  man  in  the  world.  I 
meant "  — 


170  VIOLETT 

"  I  know  —  Maudie  —  my  head  aches  so  I  'm 
stupid  "  — 

Minnie  blushed  in  her  confusion,  a  phenomenon 
that  transported  Violett  to  a  seventh  heaven  of 
rapture,  and  while  he  watched  her  d'Orsay  came 
in,  breathing  fragrance  about  him,  his  smooth 
black  hair  gleaming  from  the  recent  pomade. 

"Welcome,  little  stranger,"  Maudie  called. 
"Now  we  're  all  'ere.  Couldn't  ask  any  more,  for 
I  've  only  got  five  chairs." 

They  sat  down  at  the  table;  and  the  supper, 
served  by  a  shabby  man  from  a  neighboring  res 
taurant,  began. 

Violett  ate  little;  he  hated  being  in  the  room. 
It  and  Maudie's  voice  and  Maudie  herself  seemed 
red  to  him,  the  color  he  loathed. 

Even  pale  Minnie  lost  her  silver  gray  tone,  and 
took  on  a  reddish  tint,  as  does  a  little  willow  against 
a  crimson  sky. 

To-morrow  they  would  be  away,  — on  the  quiet 
island,  within  the  sound  of  the  sea. 

The  boy  recalled  the  supper  at  the  Sea-Urchin 
long  ago,  when  Minnie  and  he  were  children;  he 
remembered  the  laughter  and  jokes  of  the  guests, 
the  beauty  of  the  senora,  Bayne's  quiet  face. 

"You  ain't  eating  a  thing,  Mr.  A'ra  —  Adams," 
cried  Maudie  at  this  point.  "  Don't  you  like  veal  ?  " 

Violett  hated  it,  and  as  he  never  lied,  smiled  at 


VIOLETT  171 

her,  his  smile  almost  affectionate  in  his  sorrow  for 
hurting  her  feelings.  The  girl's  face  changed. 
"Please  eat  something,"  she  said  gently;  and  the 
senora,  manfully  attacking  the  veal  herself,  sec 
onded  her  hostess  with  enthusiasm  and  a  full 
mouth. 

"Delicious,  Stevie,  an'  the  grivy  is  something 
splendid." 

Minnie  smiled  absently.  She  was  happy.  She 
was  glad  to  be  going  away  with  Stevie,  who  was 
always  gentle  and  good  with  her;  she  was  tired  of 
noise  and  crowds;  the  quiet  of  the  island  would 
rest  her.  The  best  that  was  in  the  girl  was  satis 
fied. 

D'Orsay  watched  her,  his  always  pale  face  curi 
ously  white,  a  fixed  smile  under  his  mustache. 

Maud  Courtenay  saw  that  her  guests  were  not 
doing  justice  to  the  rather  elaborate  supper,  and 
she  knew  why.  Only  the  senora  ate  steadily  on 
with  a  placid  greediness.  At  length  the  shabby 
man  came  in  with  two  pails  of  ice,  in  each  of 
which  a  bottle  of  champagne  was  buried.  "Ah, 
yes,  Maudie,  I  took  the  liberty,"  explained  d'Or- 
say  with  magnificent  carelessness,  "you  having  no 
man  in  your  family." 

But  Maudie  needed  no  apologies,  and  blew  him 
a  succession  of  kisses  to  express  her  delight  at  his 
thoucrhtfulness. 


172  VIOLETT 

The  wine,  drunk  out  of  water  glasses,  contrib 
uted  largely  to  the  gayety  of  the  occasion. 

The  senora  drank  repeated  toasts  to  the  health 
of  her  dear  children.  Minnie  smiled,  and  a  little 
pink  came  to  her  thin  cheeks.  D'Orsay's  eyes,  still 
fixed  on  the  girl,  glowed  darkly.  Maudie  danced 
a  cakewalk,  to  which  no  one  but  the  shabby 
waiter  paid  any  particular  heed. 

Violett  watched  them  all  dreamily;  he  drank 
very  little  wine,  but  that  little  softened  the  hated 
color  of  his  surroundings  to  a  deep  rose.  And 
Minnie  sat  opposite  him,  her  blue  eyes  fixed  on 
him,  on  her  lips  a  smile  for  him. 

"Ladies  and  genple  —  gentlemen !  "  The  senora 
struck  the  table  sharply  with  her  knife -handle. 
"Once  more  —  the  health  of  my  darling  cheeild 
and  her  blushing  bridegroom  —  no,  I  mean,  my 
blushing  cheeild  "  — 

"Ma,  do  stop!" 

"Let  'er  alone,  Min;  what's  the  'arm,  if  it 
amuses  'er!  "  Miss  Courtenay  refilled  the  senora 's 
glass. 

D'Orsay  laughed  sharply.  "Don't  be  too  hos 
pitable,  Maudie.  JTcawn't  carry  'er  'ome." 

Violett  shrank  back  into  his  chair. 

"Nerrermind,  Maudie,  you're  perfectly  right," 
pursued  the  senora  with  amiable  vagueness,  — 
"what 's  the  'arm?  Stevie,  'ere  's  looking  at  you." 


VIOLETT  173 

Violett  bowed.  "Thank  you,  Senora;  thank  you 
very  much." 

"She's  my  only  child,  since  my  darling,  my 
darling" —  "Reginald,"  suggested  Violett  qui 
etly.  "Since  'e  died,  she's  my  only  daughter. 
Treat  'er  good,  Stevie;  be  kind  to  'er." 

Violett  took  her  hand,  promising  in  an  under 
tone  that  he  would  be  very  good  and  kind. 

Minnie  smiled  tremulously. 

"It's  late,  Stevie.  Perhaps  we'd  better  go? 
No  —  no  more  wine,  ma — please." 

They  rose ;  and  Violett,  as  he  passed  Minnie  to 
fetch  the  senora's  hat,  laid  his  hand  for  an  instant 
on  the  young  girl's  arm. 

Maud  Courtenay  saw  it ;  she  saw  the  look  in  his 
eyes,  and  with  a  laugh  and  a  quick  glance  at 
d'Orsay,  caught  up  her  wineglass. 

"A  toast!  One  more.  Here's  luck  to  you, 
Minnie,  and  lucky  you  are,  for  you  's  got  not  only 
love,  but  riches." 

Minnie  smiled  vaguely,  but  her  mother  caught 
at  the  word. 

"Ah,  yes  —  riches  it  is  —  that  is,  'e  don't  own 
Buckingham  Palace,  Stevie  don't,  nor  yet  Wind 
sor,  but  'e  's  a  nice  little  what  you  callem  —  a 
nice  little  fortune." 

D'Orsay  raised  his  heavy  eyebrows  in  polite  ad 
miration.  "'Ave  you  now,  reely,  Mr.  Adams? 


174  VIOLETT 

My  congratulations.  And  to  you,  too,  Miss  Bayne. 
You  did  well.  In  that  case  you  '  builded  better 
than  I  knew, '  to  accept  Mr.  Adams,  and  not  —  the 
poor  player." 

Violett  listened,  puzzled.  "There  is  some  mis 
take,"  he  said  simply,  after  a  pause.  "I  am  not 
rich.  I  have  no  money." 

Maudie  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "The  senora 
told  me  you  'ad,  I  'm  sure,  but  it 's  of  no  conse 
quence.  Let 's  dance  !  " 

Picking  up  her  skirts  she  began  an  impromptu 
dance  that  involved  much  kicking.  Minnie  watched 
her,  amused. 

"The  senora  tells  the  truth,"  observed  that  per 
sonage  with  great  dignity.  "  'E  'as  a  fortune  which 
whyshud  deny  't." 

Violett  gave  her  her  hat.  "Come,  Senora,"  the 
boy  said  gently,  "we  must  go.  Mr.  Bayne  is  all 
alone." 

"Go  away,  Stevie  Adams!  "  cried  the  indignant 
woman.  "Don't  you  lie  about  it!  If  I  said  you 
was  rich,  you  are  rich!  " 

"Yes,  yes,  maw,  'e  's  awful  rich.  E  's  a-going  to 
put  the  Koh-i-noor  in  the  wedding  cake  as  a  sou 
venir,"  put  in  Minnie  with  soothing  facetiousness. 

Maud  Courtenay  looked  on,  half  frightened  by 
what  she  had  brought  about.  D'Orsay's  eyes  were 
still  fixed  on  Minnie. 


VIOLETT  175 

"Then  if  you  have  no  money,  how  dare  you  ask 
me  for  my  daughter?" 

The  seuora  was  sobered  now. 

"I  never  said  I  had  any  money,  Senora." 

"But  thingummy  did  —  'e  said  so.  The  money 
that  lawyer  has  for  you." 

Violett  stood  perfectly  quiet,  facing  them  all. 

"Ah,  that  money!" 

"Yes.    It  is  money,  ain't  it?" 

"Yes.    But  —  I  shall  never  touch  it." 

"Never  touch  it !  "  screamed  the  senora.  "Never 
touch  it !  Then  what  are  you  going  to  live  on,  I  'd 
like  to  know?  " 

"What  is  it,  Stevie?  What  does  she  mean?" 
Minnie  came  to  him  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"It  is  —  some  money  that  I  can  never  use,  Min 
nie.  You  don't  mind,  do  you?  " 

Minnie  shook  her  head.  "I  wish  you  would, 
Stevie!" 

"But  I  can't,  dear.    It  is  —  wicked  money." 

The  senora  had  pinned  on  her  hat  with  the  air 
of  a  warrior  putting  on  his  helmet. 

"Come,  Miss  Bayne,  we  will  now  go  home  to 
your  pa.  Mr.  Adams,  good-by.  If  you  are  a 
pauper,  you  are  no  'usband  for  my  daughter." 

Violett  stood  quite  still,  and  every  one  looked 
at  him.  There  was  something  very  strange  in  his 
smitten  passivity. 


176  VIOLETT 

"Perhaps  she'll  take  you  —  poor  —  anyhow," 
faltered  Maudie  at  length. 

Then  the  boy  turned  his  miserable  eyes  to  Min 
nie,  and  she  sprang  back  to  him  and  put  her  arms 
around  him. 

"I  don't  care,  Stevie!  I  will  marry  you  just  the 
same,  and  we  will  be  poor  together !  " 

Maud  turned  away,  her  jealousy  and  hatred 
dead  in  her  heart.  She  felt  as  though  she  were  in 
a  temple. 

Even  yet  there  was  a  chance  for  the  boy.  The 
malice  of  the  woman  who  loved  him  and  the  man 
who  loved  Minnie  were  overpowered,  beaten  by  the 
force  of  better  things ;  and  the  senora  was  not  an 
unkind  woman,  and  at  another  time  would  doubt 
less  have  held  her  tongue  and  let  things  take  their 
course.  But  the  senora  had  been  drinking. 

"Leave  him,  Min!  Come  'ere  to  me!  I  can't 
see  you  touch 'im !  'Is  fawther  was  hung!  Hung, 
I  tell  you!" 

Minnie  gave  a  little  cry,  and  left  Violett's  side. 

"Hung!" 

"Hung  till  'is  neck  broke  —  for  murder!  'E 
killed,  'e  poisoned  a  little  child!  " 

"Is  — is  it  true,  Stevie?" 

The  girl  turned  a  perfectly  white  face  to  Vio 
lett's. 

"It  is  true,"  he  returned  dully. 


VIOLETT  177 

With  a  gesture  of  unutterable  abhorrence,  she 
turned  away,  and  burst  into  hysterical  shrieks. 

"Minnie !  "  It  was  Maud  Courtenay  who  spoke, 
now  thoroughly  frightened  and  ashamed  of  herself. 
"Min,  'e  didn't  do  nothing!  " 

But  Maud  drew  back,  frightened  anew,  asd'Or- 
say  came  to  the  sobbing  girl  and  took  her  into 
his  arms. 

"Minnie,  dearest,  do  not  cry.  You  never  loved 
him  —  and  I "  — 

His  voice  shook  with  real  emotion,  and  Minnie, 
clinging  to  him  as  a  terrified  child  clings  to  the 
nearest  protector,  sobbed  out,  "  Make  him  go  away ! 
Make  him  go  away!  " 

But  there  was  no  need  to  make  Violett  go  away. 
He  had  already  gone. 


PART  III 


A  LIGHT  rain  was  falling,  softening  the  sharp  an 
gles  of  the  world,  veiling  everything  with  its  tender 
grayness.  Violett  stood  on  Westminster  Bridge, 
looking  down  at  the  leaden  water.  He  had  walked 
until  he  was  utterly  exhausted  and  could  go  no 
more. 

It  was  all  over  now.  The  grim  ghost  of  his 
father  that  had  haunted  him  all  his  life  had  at  the 
last  stepped  definitely  in  between  him  and  —  not 
happiness,  but  life. 

There  was  no  revolt  in  the  boy's  heart,  no  wild 
anger  against  the  inevitable;  he  had  no  idea  of 
killing  himself. 

Passive,  he  had  come  to  what  appeared  to  him 
the  end  of  his  life,  and  as  he  could  see  nothing 
ahead  of  him,  and  believed  that  there  was  no  fu 
ture,  he  stood  on  the  great  bridge,  awaiting,  with 
his  curious  fatalism,  the  end. 

The  clock  in  the  tower  boomed  out  seven  o'clock, 
softly,  mistily,  its  loud  voice  gray  in  the  moist 
air.  Violett  turned  and  looked  towards  the  sound. 
Its  neutral  tone,  or  as  he  felt,  its  neutral  color, 
soothed  him.  It  was  gray  like  the  sea,  like  beau 
tiful  music. 


182  VIOLETT 

"Well  —  fine  evening,  ain't  it?  Nice  moist 
rain,  good  for  the  vigetition!  " 

A  girl  stood  beside  him  and  smiled  at  him  from 
under  her  gay  though  bedraggled  hat. 

He  did  not  answer,  but  looked  quietly  at  her 
without  curiosity. 

"Deef  and  dumb?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Oh.  Just  'orty.  Well  —  good-by.  I  thought 
you  looked  lonely,  that 's  all." 

Then  he  spoke,  as  she  turned  on  her  worn  heel 
and  started  off. 

"I  am  lonely." 

She  was  back  at  his  side  almost  before  he  had 
finished.  "Are  you?  Then  let's  be  lonely  to 
gether." 

They  walked  slowly  past  the  Abbey  and  turned 
towards  Piccadilly. 

The  girl  watched  her  companion  curiously,  her 
black  eyes  puzzled.  "Glad  you  came?"  she  asked 
at  length. 

"Came  — where?" 

"Why,  'ere.    With  me." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  'm  glad,"  he  returned,  with  weary 
politeness. 

"Have  you  had  any  supper?  " 

"No.    I  haven't  eaten  anything  all  day." 

"Not  all  day!    Why,  you  must  be  starving." 


VIOLETT  183 

Violett  stopped  walking  and  looked  at  her,  ab 
sently  thoughtful.  "Perhaps  it  is  that,"  he  com 
mented,  after  a  pause. 

"  What 's  that?   What  d'  you  mean?  " 

"I  mean  —  this  queer  feeling." 

She  laughed  shortly.  "It's  a  precious  queer 
feeling,  my  child.  It 's  an  emptiness  that  just  Jills 
you." 

"It's  that." 

They  stared  at  each  other  for  a  second,  and 
then  she  took  his  arm  and  turned  him  briskly  down 
a  side  street. 

"We  '11  'ave  our  supper,"  she  said  gayly,  "and 
then  we  '11  go  and  look  at  the  nobs  going  to  the 

pi'y." 

Violett  hurried  along,  hardly  conscious  of  what 
he  was  doing. 

It  would  have  been  a  relief  to  him  to  have  her 
take  the  initiative  had  he  noticed  in  himself  any 
lack  of  initiative,  but  he  had  not.  He  had  simply 
drifted  about  the  streets  since  the  evening  before, 
with  the  indifference  of  utter  despair,  neither  car 
ing  nor  observing  whither  chance  led  him. 

And  now  chance  having  materialized  into  the 
form  of  this  large  black-eyed  girl  who  wished  him 
to  eat,  he  would  eat. 

When  at  last  they  reached  the  little  restaurant, 
and  had  sat  down  at  a  table  with  an  almost  ingen- 


184  VIOLETT 

iously  dirty  cloth,  the  girl  leaned  across  and  said 
to  him  firmly,  "Now  then,  Romeo,  wike  up  and 
say  what  you  want." 

"I  —  don't  want  anything."  He  looked  at  her 
for  a  moment,  and  then  added,  as  if  the  statement 
simplified  and  explained  everything,  "My  father 
was  hung." 

She  stared.  "Was  'e,  now?  I  only  wish  mine 
was.  You  're  in  luck." 

Then  suddenly  she  turned  and  called  loudly  to 
the  nearest  waitress,  "I  s'y,  come  'ere,  'e's 
fainted!" 

A  few  minutes  later  Violett  came  to  himself,  to 
find  himself  lying  on  a  sofa  in  a  bad-smelling,  dark 
little  room,  with  wet  hair,  and  brandy  spilt  all  over 
him. 

"Are  you  better?"  "  'E's  getting  'is  color 
back."  "Poor  boy!"  People  were  talking,  but 
it  did  not  seem  to  him  that  they  were  talking 
about  him. 

Then  he  heard  the  voice  of  the  girl  who  had 
brought  him  to  the  place. 

"'E  says  'is  father  was  hung,  and  then  off  'e 
goes  like  a  blessed  girl!  "  she  ended,  with  a  giggle 
in  which  the  other  girl  and  an  old  woman  with  a 
beard  joined  her. 

"Were  'd  you  pick  'im  up,  Rosamund?" 

"On  Westminster  Bridge." 


VIOLETT  185 

"Well,"  she  added,  turning  to  the  boy,  "bet 
ter?  " 

He  sat  up  slowly,  smiling  at  her.  "  I  am  —  quite 
well,  thank  you.  You  have  been  very  kind  to  me." 

The  three  women  regarded  him  silently.  His 
manner  was  extraordinarily  gentle,  and  yet  they 
somehow  felt  that  they  were  his  inferiors. 

"You  must  just  eat  a  bit  of  something,"  Rosa 
mund  said  tentatively.  "You're  too  weak  to 
walk.  You  've  been  ill,  'ave  n't  you?  " 

"Oh,  no;  I  have  not  been  ill." 

He  rose,  and  then,  as  he  reached  the  door, 
turned.  "Please  come  with  me,"  he  asked  simply, 
and  the  girl's  assurance  returned  with  a  comfort 
able  rush.  If  he  wanted  her,  she  surely  needn't 
be  afraid  of  him. 

Veal,  roasted  and  then  set  afloat  in  a  small  sea 
of  strange  gravy,  was  what  they  ate,  and  porter  was 
what  they  drank. 

"What's  your  name?" 

Violett  laid  down  his  fork  and  looked  at  her. 
"Violett  Maule.  My  father  was  hung,  don't  you 
remember?" 

Rosamund  shook  her  head.  "Maule  ?  No.  It 
was  n't  'im  as  cut  up  the  lydy  in  the  lodgings  at 
Rotherhithe?" 

"No.  He  killed  my  little  cousin  Alice  —  poi 
soned  her  with  sugar  —  for  her  money.  It  was  a 
long  time  ago." 


186  VIOLETT 

He  told  the  tragic  story  so  quietly,  so  simply, 
that  the  girl  stared  at  him,  not  in  the  least  know 
ing  how  to  take  it. 

"Did  'e,  now?"  she  said  at  last.  "Poisoned  a 
little  girl!  Oh,  Gawd!" 

Violett  started.  It  was  Maud  Courtenay's  ex 
pression,  and  brought  back  to  him  with  fearful 
distinctness  the  scene  of  the  supper. 

"To-day,"  he  said,  a  moment  later,  "is  my  wed 
ding  day." 

Rosamund  set  down  her  glass.  She  was  afraid 
of  crazy  people.  Then  the  extreme  youth  of  the 
boy,  the  childishness  of  his  helpless  manner,  the 
expression  in  his  hopeless  eyes,  reassured  her. 

"Your  wedding  day!    Oh,  come!" 

"It  is.  Indeed  it  is.  Or  I  mean  it  was.  She 
wouldn't  marry  me,  of  course." 

"Why  of  course?   What  do  you  mean?  " 

"I  mean  on  account  of  my  father,"  Violett  ex 
plained  patiently. 

"Oh,  rot!"  Rosamund  rose  and  stood  looking 
down  at  him.  "What 's  your  father  got  to  do  with 
you  ?  I  '11  pay,  if  you  '11  give  me  the  money.  Got 
any?  " 

The  boy  pulled  out  a  handful  of  silver,  among 
which  a  sovereign  gleamed.  It  was  the  money  for 
the  journey  home.  The  girl  paid,  gave  him  the 
change,  and  led  him  out  into  the  rainy  evening. 


VIOLETT  187 

"Reely,  now,  was  it  your  wedding  day?  " 

"Yes.  Why  should  I  say  so  if  it  wasn't?  Oh 
—  what 's  this  —  what 's  this  place  ?  "  Catching  at 
his  companion's  arm,  he  stared  up  at  the  glare  of 
electric  lights  on  the  great  door. 

"That 's  the  Frivolity;  you  don't  know  nothing 
do  you?" 

"Let's  go  in." 

Rosamund  was  delighted. 

The  theatre  was  full  of  people.  On  the  stage  a 
man  was  just  ending  a  song,  amid  much  applause. 

Violett  sat  down  in  silence.  In  a  minute  he 
would  see  Minnie.  And  Minnie  came  and  sang, 
with  five  other  girls.  They  wore  short  pink  gowns 
and  great  black  hats  that  flopped  quaintly  as  they 
sang.  They  were  much  painted,  but  Minnie  looked 
desperately  ill. 

Her  thin  voice,  sweet  as  that  of  a  bird,  rose  and 
fell  on  the  smooth  waves  of  the  orchestra.  She  was 
something  so  wonderful,  so  perfect,  that  the  boy 
felt  a  stir  of  consolation  at  his  heart. 

Of  course  such  a  creature  could  not  marry  a  man 
whose  father  had  been  hanged.  He  had  lost  not 
a  possibility,  a  reality ;  he  had  awakened  from  a 
dream. 

"Like  'em?"  asked  Rosamund,  with  a  wink. 
But  he  did  not  hear  her. 

On  Minnie's  left  hand  something  sparkled. 


n 

KOSAMUND  RUNDLE  did  her  best  for  Violett.  The 
boy,  in  his  strange,  passive  condition ,  might  easier 
have  fallen  into  worse  hands  than  hers. 

For  a  week  she  looked  after  him,  taking  him 
home  to  her  poor  rooms  and  giving  him  her  bed, 
sleeping  herself  on  the  floor  on  a  borrowed  mat 
tress.  She  made  him  eat,  she  made  him  walk,  she 
made  him  talk. 

He  was  as  biddable  as  a  good  child,  obeying  her 
with  unquestioning  docility,  but  there  was  no  re 
bound  in  him.  He  had  never,  since  they  left  the 
theatre,  taken  the  initiative  in  anything.  Some 
thing  in  him  seemed  broken.  Like  a  watch  with  a 
snapped  mainspring,  as  long  as  she  wound,  he  went, 
but  when  she  stopped,  he  was  motionless.  Pa 
tiently  she  made  him  tell  her  about  Minnie,  about 
his  engagement,  and  about  the  final  rupture. 

She  learned,  with  the  keen-wittedness  of  her 
kind,  that  Maud  Courtenay  was  at  the  bottom  of 
it;  that  she  still  loved  Violett  in  her  way,  and 
that  d' Or  say  wanted  Minnie. 

Rosamund  herself  did  not  admire  Minnie;  she 
was  too  pale  and  thin  for  the  big,  robust  girl's  taste. 
But  d'Orsay  she  had  once  seen  in  a  play,  and  was, 
by  her  own  admiration  for  the  polite  villain's  curls 


VIOLETT  189 

and  deep  voice,  convinced  that  Minnie,  too,  was  not 
unappreciative  of  these  charms. 

"Of  course  she'll  marry  'im,  though  why  'e 
wants  the  like  of  'er,  only  Gawd  knows !  Vi'lett 
ought  to  'ave  'ad  'er;  'e  's  'er  kind." 

In  the  girl's  mind  there  was  a  deep  sense  of  the 
fitness  of  things. 

Violett,  she  realized,  was  much  more  likely  to 
make  a  good  husband  than  the  big  actor  ;  but  even 
as  she  appreciated  her  protege's  good  qualities,  she 
smiled  at  his  youthfulness  and  what  she  called,  with 
a  tenderness  not  without  a  touch  of  the  maternal, 
his  silly  ways. 

"You  must  go  back  to  your  island,  Vi'lett,"  she 
told  him  one  evening,  as  they  sat  by  the  window, 
he  watching  her  expend  much  energy  on  sewing 
a  button  on  her  boot. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"London  's  no  place  for  you." 

Violett  smiled  at  her,  again  shaking  his  head. 

"But  it  ain't.  Why,  look  'ere,  what  are  you 
going  to  do  when  your  money's  all  gone?  You've 
only  got  a  little  left." 

"It  doesn't  make  any  difference,  Rosamund." 

The  girl  bit  off  her  thread  with  a  vicious  snap 
of  her  strong  teeth. 

"Doesn't  make  any  difference!  Got  any  more 
at  'ome?" 


190  VIOLETT 

There  was  a  short  pause,  during  which  Violett 
closed  his  eyes. 

"I  have  a  lot  of  money,"  he  said  at  last.  "I 
don't  know  how  much,  but  I  think  it  must  be 
about  five  thousand  pounds." 

The  girl's  shoe  was  large,  and  it  fell  to  the  floor 
with  a  loud  noise. 

"Five  thous —  you  're  dotty!  " 

"No,  I  'm  not.  It  is  about  that.  It 's  the  money 
that  belonged  to  the  little  girl  my  father  poisoned." 

There  was  something  rather  terrible  in  the  quiet 
with  which  the  words  crossed  his  lips.  He  had 
been  so  dreadfully  ashamed  of  his  father's  crime 
all  his  life;  he  had  tried  to  avoid  thinking  of  it; 
he  had  never  looked  it  straight  in  the  face  before. 
But  now  the  worst  had  happened,  and  in  the  mis 
ery  to  which  the  crime  had  brought  him  the  crime 
itself  seemed  almost  commonplace  to  him. 

Rosamund  argued  with  him  for  an  hour,  —  if  a 
one-sided  flow  of  unopposed  opinion  can  be  called 
argument. 

He  could  not  touch  the  money.  It  was  not  that 
he  would  not;  the  matter  was  simplified  to  him  by 
the  utter  impossibility  of  his  ever  doing  so. 

At  length  the  girl  rose.  "Well,  I  'm  going  out. 
I  've  got  to  buy  me  a  hat ;  I  couldn't  go  to  the 
factory  to-morrow  with  that  old  thing." 

"The  factory?" 


VIOLETT  191 

Violett  turned  from  the  window  and  looked  at 
her,  vaguely  disturbed. 

"I  told  you  twicet  that  I'd  got  a  plice  in  a 
paper-box  factory.  Did  you  think  I  lived  on  a 
pension  from  the  Queen  for  good  conduct?"  She 
whirled  around,  pinned  on  her  despised  headgear, 
and  ran  downstairs. 

It  was  a  warm  evening  in  February;  the  window 
was  open,  and  the  air  that  stole  in  across  the  roofs 
was  moist  and  mild.  The  quiet  roar  of  the  busy 
streets  nearest  at  hand  had  grown  to  silence  to  the 
boy's  accustomed  ears.  He  leaned  forward  and 
watched  a  baby  being  undressed  by  its  mother  in 
a  neighboring  window.  It  was  a  fat  baby  with 
crooked  red  legs,  and  a  friz  of  curls  standing  erect 
on  its  crown.  He  could  see  it  laugh  as  the  mother 
danced  it  up  and  down.  At  another  window  a  man 
sat,  his  elbows  on  the  sill,  smoking.  The  smoke 
hung  like  a  cloud  in  the  heavy  air.  A  cat  crept 
dainty-pawed  from  one  window  to  another.  The 
quiet  of  evening  was  yet  unbroken  by  the  return 
home  of  most  of  the  people,  whose  loud  voices 
would  shatter  it. 

And  chimney-pots  have  a  beauty  of  their  own, 
standing  grimly  against  the  sky,  acres  of  them. 

Violett's  was  the  gift  of  seeing  beauty  in  his 
surroundings,  and  he  loved  the  quiet  prospect  be 
fore  him  as  much  as  he  loved  anything  now.  It 


192  VIOLETT 

was  so  still.  The  people  he  saw  were  far  away,  and 
they  did  not  know  him ;  they  did  not  know  that  his 
father  had  been  hanged. 

There  was  a  geranium  in  a  window  off  to  his 
left,  not  a  glaring  red  flower  like  a  trumpet  tone, 
but  a  soft  pink  one.  While  the  boy  sat  there,  an 
old  woman  came  and  watered  the  flower  tenderly, 
poking  up  the  earth  about  its  root  with  a  bit  of 
stick.  She  did  it  as  Agnes  had  done  long  ago,  be 
fore  she  was  blind.  Poor  Agnes !  Poor  Michael ! 

He  had  not  written  to  the  old  people,  nor  thought 
much  of  their  anxiety  over  his  non-appearance. 
That  he  had  accepted  as  he  had  his  own  misery,  — 
as  inevitable.  He  was  vaguely  sorry  for  it,  but  that 
was  all.  The  wet  leaves  of  the  humble  flower,  so 
full,  in  the  place  it  filled  in  the  old  woman's  life, 
of  poetry,  gleamed  a  little  through  the  haze. 

Suddenly  a  sound  stole  softly  across  the  inter 
vening  expanse  of  roofs  —  a  sound  at  which  the 
boy's  face  changed  wonderfully.  It  was  music: 
splendid,  heavenly  music,  that  grew  and  swelled 
and  diminished  and  grew  again;  music  that  was 
gray  and  green  and  cream-white,  lit  by  sunlight 
and  darkened  by  hallowed  shadow,  —  the  Song  of 
the  Sea! 

Violett  rose  and  stood  listening.  It  was  his 
"Song  of  the  Sea,"  the  song  that  had  come  to  him 
years  ago,  that  night  in  bed,  after  the  first  touch 


VIOLETT  193 

of  his  hands  to  a  piano ;  the  song  that  he  had  sung 
back  to  the  sea  in  the  dusk  of  dawn ;  the  song  that 
he  had  lost  for  days  —  or  was  it  years  ? 

But  it  was  not  borne  to  him  on  the  clean-cut, 
liquid  notes  of  a  piano;  it  came  on  the  golden 
strands  of  string  music,  —  violins  and  a  'cello. 


HI 

DRAWN  by  the  magic  of  his  own  music,  Violett 
stepped  from  his  window  to  the  damp  roof  and 
passed  half  a  dozen  houses  to  his  left :  he  passed  the 
cat,  sitting  demurely  under  a  chimney,  licking  its 
paws;  he  passed  the  pink  geranium;  he  passed 
the  baby's  window,  and  heard  the  crooning  mo 
ther  inside  the  room.  All  these  things,  seen  and 
heard  subconsciously,  were  a  part  of  the  song. 

The  sea  was  about  him;  its  voice  was  calling 
him. 

The  windows  from  which  the  music  came  were 
lighted,  the  only  ones  in  sight  that  were  not  gray 
with  the  dusk.  They  were  also  hung  with  muslin 
curtains. 

Violett  went  quietly  to  one  and  looked  in.  It 
was  a  room  belonging  to  poor  people,  but  it  was 
a  pleasant  one,  and  bore  an  air  of  distinction  in  its 
simple  furnishings.  Around  a  large  table  in  its  cen 
tre,  three  men  were  sitting,  sheets  of  manuscript 
music  propped  up  against  the  lamp  that  shed  its 
light  on  their  earnest  faces  as  they  played. 

Two  were  old,  the  'cellist  and  one  of  the  violin 
ists.  The  other  man,  also  playing  on  a  violin,  was 
young,  and  had  a  white  flower  in  his  shabby  coat. 

There  was  a  jug  with  several  roses  in  it  on  an- 


VIOLETT  195 

other  table;  books;  a  table  set  for  supper  with  a 
white  cloth  and  gleaming  silver  forks  in  the  back 
ground  ;  and  around  and  above  and  under  —  the 
"Song  of  the  Sea." 

Violett  was  born  to  love  the  cold  piano  tones 
better  than  any,  in  spite  of  the  penetrating  beauty 
of  those  of  strings,  and  he  missed  them. 

The  song  as  it  was  played  was  too  warm,  too 
thick.  It  wanted  the  limpidity  of  cold  water  and 
piano  notes. 

But  oh,  the  wonder  of  it ! 

The  boy  stood  looking  in,  not  thinking  to  stay 
beyond  the  lamplight,  his  head  high,  his  eyes  splen 
did  with  ecstasy.  Then  something  went  wrong. 
The  music  went  on,  faultless,  beautiful,  clear;  but 
it  was  not  the  "  Song  of  the  Sea." 

It  grew  loud,  conventionally  tumultuous,  and 
then  melted  to  a  fictitious  hushedness.  And  the 
color  had  changed  from  sea-color  to  yellow,  —  a 
tender,  pale  gold,  the  color  of  ripe  wheat,  beauti 
ful,  but  not  sea-color. 

"That  is  wrong!"  said  Violett  suddenly  but 
quite  confidently,  leaning  into  the  room. 

The  apparition  of  his  thin  young  face,  hung  round 
with  elf -like  locks  of  black  hair,  brought  the  music 
to  an  abrupt  close. 

"What's  wrong?  "asked  the  old  violinist,  his 
bow  still  poised  over  the  strings. 


196  VIOLETT 

"The  music.  The  last  part  isn't  the  '  Song  of 
the  Sea'  at  all!" 

The  three  men  stared  at  each  other.  "  The 
*  Song  of  the  Sea  ' !  How  do  you  know  it 's  the 
'  Song  of  the  Sea  '  ?  "  asked  the  youngest,  with  a 
strong  foreign  accent. 

Violett  laughed  at  the  absurd  question.  "How 
do  I  know?  Well,  you  see,  it  came  to  me  first." 

"It  came  to  you?  What  do  you  mean?"  The 
'cellist  rose  and  went  to  the  window,  after  laying 
his  'cello  carefully  upon  his  chair. 

Violett  liked  him. 

"I  mean  —  I  heard  it  in  the  night.  I  suppose 
you  'd  say  I  composed  it." 

The  old  man  raised  his  white  eyebrows  in  a 
funny,  irregular  way,  and  wiped  his  musical  and 
gleaming  brow  on  his  handkerchief.  "You  com 
posed  it?  " 

"  Oh,  come,  now,"  called  the  foreigner  gayly, 
"dat  is  a  little  too  strong!  " 

"  The  '  Song  of  the  Sea '  was  written  by  Son- 
nenthal,"  the  old  'cellist  added. 

Violett  flushed.  "  No.  I  —  it  is  mine.  And  you 
don't  play  it  right,"  he  persisted. 

The  second  old  man,  who  had  been  carefully 
resining  his  bow,  turned  with  a  significant  wink  to 
the  young  one. 

"Well,  well,  suppose  you  come  in  and  tell  us 


VIOLETT  197 

how  you  happened  to  write  Sonnenthal's  *  Sym 
phonic  Poem. ' ' 

Violett  stepped  over  the  sill  into  the  room.  "It 
is  n't  a  —  a  poem.  It 's  a  song,  and  it  is  n't  —  that 
man's." 

His  old  dislike  for  Sonnenthal  came  back  to  him 
suddenly. 

"You  better  have  him  up  before  ze  beak,"  pro 
posed  the  youngest  of  the  musicians  in  his  careful 
slang. 

Violett  paid  no  attention  to  him. 

"Play  it  again!  I'll  tell  you  where  it  ends 
and  something  else  begins." 

"  We  are  too  shy  to  play  for  such  a  distinguished 
composer,"  jeered  the  Pole. 

But  the  two  old  men  watched  the  boy  kindly. 

"Play,  Pidgeon,"  proposed  the  violinist.  "Come, 
Petrovsky." 

And  they  played.  Then,  just  as  they  began 
what  they  called  the  Rondo,  Violett  held  up  his 
hand. 

"There!  that  is  something  else.  Can't  you  hear 
that  it  is  n't  the  sea  any  more  ?  Why,  it  is  n't  even 
green." 

Pidgeon's  eyebrows  wriggled  again.  "Can  you 
play  the  violin?  "  he  asked. 

"No.    I  can  play  the  piano." 

Petrovsky  burst  out  laughing. 


198  VIOLETT 

"  Bien !  Then  play !  The  piano  is  behind  your 
Altesse  Royale." 

The  boy  turned.  Dark  and  shapeless  in  the 
gloom,  one  or  two  gleams  of  light  from  the  lamp 
falling  athwart  its  mystery,  stood  a  grand  piano, 
the  first  one  he  had  seen  for  years. 

And  in  the  great  clumsy  box,  tight  shut  and 
solemn,  were  hidden  all  the  beauty,  all  the  joy  of 
life. 

Struck  by  the  look  in  the  boy's  face,  old  Pid- 
geon  rose  and  opened  the  instrument. 

And  the  keys,  shining  in  the  light  which  the 
'cellist's  fat  body  had  kept  at  bay  until  he  rose, 
drew  Violett's  hands,  as  cold  as  they,  to  the  splen 
did  responsiveness  of  their  greeting. 

He  struck,  very  softly,  a  chord,  —  the  chord  of 
shifting  water,  of  green  and  gray  heights  and  hol 
lows,  of  lapping  waves,  of  grave  depths. 

And  misery  and  pain  and  hopelessness  slipped 
from  him  as  his  fingers  called  shyly  and  timidly 
the  message  of  the  water ;  and  as  it  came,  haltingly 
but  perfectly,  soft  but  triumphant,  the  three  men 
listened,  silent  and  wondering. 

"That  is  it,"  commented  the  Pole  at  last. 

"Hush!  "  answered  old  Barr. 

Violett  played  on  and  on,  stumbling  now  and 
again,  as  if  his  fingers  themselves  wondered  at  the 
sounds  they  evoked. 


VIOLETT  199 

It  was  imperfect,  strange,  awkward,  and  won 
derful.  At  length  he  paused.  "Don't  you  hear?" 

Barr  nodded.  "I  hear  —  something.  What  is 
your  name?" 

Violett  rose  abruptly.  "I  am  Violett  Maule. 
My  father  killed  a  little  girl  and  was  hung,"  he 
said. 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Then  the  Pole,  whose 
eyes  were  full  of  tears,  laid  his  hand  on  his  arm. 
"Never  mind  your  name,  or  what  your  father 
killed,"  he  cried  warmly. 

"Tell  me,  Violett  Maule,"  asked  Pidgeon  prac 
tically,  "did  you  ever  see  Sonnenthal?" 

"  Yes.  He  married  a  lady  I  know  —  Miss  Rose 
Carstairs.  I  saw  him  twice  —  or  three  times." 

"H  'm  !    Ever  play  for  him  ?  " 

"Yes  —  no.    I  tried,  and  couldn't." 

"Then  where  did  he  get  hold  of  your  song?" 

Violett  laughed.  "  Miss  Rose  loved  it.  Tell  me, 
—  do  you  know  Mr.  Sonnenthal?  " 

Pidgeon  laughed.  "Do  I  know  him?  Not  I. 
He  's  a  great  man,  Sonnenthal;  we  are  small  fry." 

The  young  Pole  frowned.  "I  have  met  him. 
And  I  have  met  his  wife,  poor  thing." 

"  Where  —  is  Miss  Rose  ?  " 

"They  live  in  Kensington." 

"Play  it  again,  lad,  your  sea  song,"  suggested 
Barr,  sitting  down  and  nursing  his  violin  lovingly. 


200  VIOLETT 

"I  must  go.    Rosamund  will  be  anxious." 

"Rosamund?" 

"Yes.  I  have  been  with  her.  She  has  taken 
care  of  me.  She  is  very  good." 

The  Pole  gave  a  short  laugh,  and  then  stopped 
abruptly.  "Come,  play  it  just  once  more." 

It  was  one  o'clock  before  Violett  left  the  room. 
The  moon  had  risen  and  the  roof -world  was  beau 
tiful. 

And  the  magic  of  the  music  the  trio  of  friends 
had  played  for  him  hung  like  the  moonlight  over 
everything. 


IV 

ROSAMUND'S  pleasure  in  the  extraordinary  change 
that  had  taken  place  in  Violett  was  not  unnaturally 
tinged  with  contempt. 

He  had  heard  music,  he  had  touched  a  piano, 
and  had  come  back  to  her  rooms  in  a  sort  of  trance 
of  ecstasy,  as  incomprehensible  to  the  girl  as  had 
been  his  former  condition  of  apathetic  misery. 

"Music  —  well,  I  'm  glad  you  enjoyed  your  even 
ing,"  she  said,  as  she  lit  her  candle  preparatory  to 
going  to  her  mattress  in  the  next  room,  "but  I  '11 
be  —  blowed  if  1  can  see  what  difference  music  can 
mike  to  any  one." 

Violett  did  not  sleep,  but  being  awake  was  bliss. 
The  quiet  hours  trooped  by  to  a  great  hushed 
march  of  triumph ;  each  striking  of  a  near  church 
clock  was  a  white  milestone  on  the  road  to  morn 
ing,  and  in  the  morning  there  was  more  music. 

The  world  was  full  of  music,  and  nothing  else 
mattered ! 

When  at  last  the  dim  day  dawned,  the  boy  rose 
quietly,  and  without  disturbing  Rosamund  dressed 
and  went  out  into  it.  It  was  very  early,  even  for 
the  poor.  The  first  person  he  met  was  a  man  going 
home,  a  faded  yellow  rose  hanging  limp  in  his  coat. 

The  second  wayfarer  was  a  beggar,  who  asked 


202  VIOLETT 

for  a  penny.  Violett  looked  at  him  vaguely,  as  he 
gave  him  the  money,  and  wondered  why  the  man 
was  unhappy.  There  was  music  in  the  world ! 

With  the  instinct  born  in  him,  the  boy  made  his 
way  to  the  nearest  water,  —  the  river.  Brown  and 
sullen  it  swept  under  a  great  bridge,  wisps  of  fog 
hanging  over  it,  the  light  that  was  coming  to  the 
sky  reflected  faintly  on  its  glassy  surface.  Violett 
leaned  over  the  parapet  and  tried  to  hear  the  sound 
of  its  rushing,  but  wagons  and  carts  rattled  and 
groaned  behind  him. 

"It  is  music,  though,"  he  thought. 

Conscious  of  hunger  for  the  first  time  for  many 
days,  he  stopped  at  a  coffee-stand  and  consumed  a 
cup  of  dark  brown  nectar,  with  a  large  slice  of  am 
brosia  and  butter. 

Then,  it  being  nearly  eight  o'clock,  he  returned 
to  the  humble  home  that  had  taken  him  in.  Rosa 
mund  had  gone  to  her  work,  leaving  some  coarse 
food  for  him  on  the  table.  As  he  looked  at  it  he 
realized  suddenly  how  great  the  girl's  kindness  had 
been.  Tears  rushed  to  his  eyes. 

And  Agnes!  And  Michael!  And  Bob  Venn! 
poor  things,  who  could  not  fly  into  these  exquisite 
azure  clouds!  What  did  they  think  about  him, 
down  there  in  their  pitiful  brown  world  ?  He  would 
write  Agnes.  But  not  yet.  Now  the  piano  was 
waiting  for  him. 


VIOLETT  203 

Stepping  out  upon  the  roof,  he  ran  swiftly  along 
to  the  magical  window.  As  he  reached  it,  a  cross, 
unshaven -looking  man  in  the  next  house  called  to 
him,  "Hello  there,  sneaking  into  other  people's 
windows ! " 

Violett  turned  and  beamed  at  the  poor  thing 
with  such  a  smile  of  perfect  love  and  joy,  that  he 
was  allowed  to  enter  the  room  without  further  pro 
testation. 

It  was  empty.  Old  Pidgeon,  who  owned  it,  was 
a  watchmaker  by  trade,  and  had  gone  to  his  shop. 
It  was  bare  and  shabby  enough,  but  to  Violett  it 
was  the  home  of  melody.  The  piano  was  closed, 
and  the  joy  of  slowly  opening  it  was  his ;  the  joy 
of  peeping  into  the  wonderful  metal  inside  of  the 
thing ;  the  joy  of  stroking  the  yellowed  keys  softly 
with  his  hand,  and  then  the  joy  of  playing. 

If  ghosts  exist,  and  if  those  of  the  watchmaker's 
daughter,  to  whom  the  instrument  had  been  given 
years  ago  by  a  childless  old  woman  who  had  her 
self  played  on  it  for  years,  —  if  pretty,  silly  Louisa 
Pidgeon 's  pretty,  silly  ghost  had  come  back  that 
morning,  together  with  poor  little  Mouchette's, 
they  would  have  held  their  ghostly  breaths  and 
grasped  each  other's  ghostly  hands  with  surprise. 
For  Violett,  alone  at  the  piano,  unwatched,  un 
heard,  as  he  thought,  found  that  the  thoughts  and 
feelings  that  he  had  had  of  late  —  the  happiness,  the 


204  VIOLETT 

sorrow,  and  now  this  supreme  joy  —  had  flown  into 
the  old  rosewood  box,  to  nestle  among  the  silver 
strings,  and  prepared  mysteriously  in  its  depths, 
now  came  tumbling  out  over  each  other,  pealing, 
wailing,  shouting,  in  a  splendid  harmonized  confu 
sion  comparable  to  nothing  but  the  rush  of  the  great 
wind  through  trees,  the  beating  of  waves  on  hard 
sand. 

At  noon  Pidgeon  came  back. 

"Well!"  the  old  man  puffed,  as  he  entered, 
"the  stairs  is  lined  with  people  listening  to  you; 
better  'and  around  the  'at !  " 

Violett  smiled.  "It  was  splendid!  "  he  returned 
simply. 

"What  was  splendid?" 

"The  music." 

Pidgeon  shook  his  head  ominously.  "Now  look 
'ere,  Vi'lett,  don't  you  go  an'  get  vain.  You  play 
very  nicely  considering,  but  any  girl  of  sixteen 
that 's  been  to  a  school  can  play  better  than  you." 

"I  know.  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  the  playing,  I 
meant  the  music.  It  just  came  rushing." 

The  watchmaker  kept  him  to  dinner,  which  he 
cooked  himself,  with  skill  and  some  delicacy  of 
taste,  in  his  tiny  kitchen. 

"You  must  'ave  lessons  in  'armony,"  the  little 
man  said,  slicing  an  onion  neatly. 

"Harmony?" 


VIOLETT  205 

"Yes.  'Ow  to  write  down  the  music  —  the  way 
Sonnenthal  wrote  down  your  '  Song  of  the  Sea. ' 
You  can't  play,  but  you  are  going  to  be  a  com 
poser." 

"Like  Beethoven,"  agreed  the  boy  simply. 

Pidgeon  laughed.  "We  '11  see,  we  '11  see!  Like 
yourself,  I  'ope." 

Violett  answered  all  his  questions  quite  directly, 
telling  the  tale  of  Minnie  and  her  defection  with 
gentle  excuses.  "You  see,  a  girl  couldn't  stand 
that" 

Pidgeon  looked  at  him.  "But  it 's  a  very  short 
time  ago.  Are  n't  you  unhappy  about  her  ?  " 

Violett  hesitated.  "Being  happy  or  unhappy," 
he  answered  slowly,  "  doesn't  seem  to  matter  so 
much  if  one  is  in  tune.  I  mean,  happiness  is  major, 
and  unhappiness  minor,  but  one's  key  can  be  — 
complete  —  in  its  way,  and  —  right." 

Pidgeon  nodded.  "Yes,  you  are  right;  'armony, 
inner  'armony,  is  the  thing." 

They  were  both  silent  for  a  few  minutes. 


PETROVSKY  found  Sonnenthal  at  the  piano  when 
he  entered  the  Master's  house  a  week  or  so  after 
Violett's  appearance  in  the  window  of  Pidgeon's 
rooms. 

The  Master,  as  he  liked  to  be  called,  sat  at  the 
far  end  of  the  long  room,  in  a  stained-glass  alcove, 
through  which  a  mesh  of  glowing  color  fell  on  his 
plump  figure  and  smooth,  fat  face. 

The  years  were  said  to  have  dealt  kindly  with 
Felix  Sonnenthal.  His  face  bore  no  lines,  his  hair 
was  still  brown  and  glossy,  his  teeth  white. 

He  looked  distinctly  younger  than  he  was,  but 
one  close  observer  knew  that  his  face  should  have 
had  lines,  —  lines  of  thought,  of  work,  of  struggle 
with  himself,  the  lines  that  every  middle-aged  face 
should  bear;  and  —  they  were  not  there. 

People  who  remembered  the  man  as  he  had  been 
ten  years  before,  his  fits  of  moody  silence,  his 
uneven  temper,  considered  that  he  had  improved. 

"He  is  so  much  more  pleasant,  my  dear,"  one 
of  these  observers  said  to  Rose  Sonnenthal,  "so 
much  more  comfortable,  and  it  must  be  your  in 
fluence;  you  must  be  very  proud." 

And  the  great  man's  wife  smiled  and  said  no 
thing.  She  had  followed,  step  by  step,  the  gradual 


VIOLETT  207 

deterioration  of  her  husband's  character,  —  the 
easy  relinquishing  of  the  rudder  he  had  once  tried 
to  hold,  the  encroachment  of  the  laisser  alter  that 
is  so  fatal  to  people  who  have  the  artistic  tempera 
ment. 

She  knew  that  the  moody  temper,  the  flashes  of 
anger  of  the  old  days,  had  meant,  at  least,  a  re 
sentment  against  the  usurpation  of  the  worse  half 
of  his  nature,  and  that  the  easy  good  temper  that 
was  now  his  was  the  outward  expression  of  an  utter 
indifference  to  right  and  wrong  other  than  as  social 
assets. 

And  her  face  bore  the  lines  that  his  lacked.  She 
had  lived  and  suffered  for  two. 

Sonnenthal  smiled  when  he  recognized  his  guest. 
"Bon  jour,  bon  jour!"  he  cried  gayly,  without 
ceasing  to  play.  "  If  you  mention  concerts  to  me, 
I  will  wring  your  neck!  " 

"  I  shall  not  mention  concerts,  Maestro.  I  come 
on  other  grounds,"  returned  the  younger  man, 
laughing. 

The  velvety  fingers  played  with  the  notes  as  a 
kitten  does  with  a  rosebud,  and  then  with  a  little 
whirr  tossed  them  away  —  into  memory. 

"You  look  very  solemn.  Take  a  cigarette." 
Sonnenthal  rose  from  the  piano  and  lay  down  on 
a  low  divan  covered  with  a  white  bearskin. 

"Solemn?  Well  —  perhaps.  It  is  about  your 
sea  symphony." 


208  VIOLETT 

"My  sea  poem ?   Et  —  apres ? " 

"Apres,  — it  has  another  claimant." 

Sonnenthal  laughed.    "Not  really!    Who?" 

"A  boy  —  a  queer  creature,  I  think  a  little 
touched,  and  quite  undoubtedly  a  bit  of  a  genius. 
He  used  to  know  Mrs.  Sonnenthal.  Violett  Maule 
is  his  name." 

With  a  grunt  of  amusement  at  his  own  diffi 
culty,  the  Master  rolled  over  and  sat  up.  "Maule ! 
Ah,  yes,  I  remember.  So  he  says  he  wrote  my 
music?" 

Petrovsky  laughed.  "No.  He  says  that  you 
wrote  his  music." 

"And  you  believe  him?" 

"I  never  believe  anything,  Maestro.  But  I 
warn  you.  He  will  make  trouble  for  you." 

Then  Sonnenthal  understood,  and  rising,  smiled. 

"You  charming  boy,  how  much  do  you  want?" 

The  Pole  was  attempting  a  little  vicarious  black 
mail  without  a  qualm,  but  in  cheery  cynicism  he 
was  no  match  for  the  man  whose  delicate  inter 
pretation  of  Chopin  had  won  him  renown  all  the 
world  over. 

"How  much  —  what?  "  he  stammered. 

"How  much  —  pounds,  shillings,  pence?" 

"Then  —  Maule's  story  is  true?  " 

The  Master  lay  flat  on  his  back,  looking  up 
through  a  cloud  of  smoke. 


VIOLETT  209 

"True?  That  the  melody  is  his  — yes.  That 
the  Poeme  Syinphonique  is  his  —  jamais  cle  la  vie, 
mon  cher!  "  Curiously  enough,  musician  though 
the  man  was,  he  still  said,  "Chamais  te  la  fie." 

"  The  fact  remains,  as  you  say.  The  melody  — 
the  whole  first  movement  —  is  his.  He  is  going  to 
claim  it." 

"He  will  make  himself  famous,"  replied  the 
older  man,  with  a  shrug,  "but  that  will  not  hurt 
me." 

Suddenly  Petrovsky  lost  his  patience.  "It  will 
hurt  you,"  he  said  angrily.  "He  has  witnesses. 
Your  wife  is  one  of  them." 

The  shot  told. 

Sonnenthal  jumped  up  and  threw  down  his  ciga 
rette.  "  My  wife  —  did  he  tell  you  this  ?  " 

"Yes.  You  laugh  at  me,  but  I  wanted  to  warn 
you." 

"Then  —  it  was  not  you?   I  am  glad,  Lao." 

The  Pole  winced  at  the  kindness  in  the  tone  of 
the  man  who  had  helped  him. 

"You  had.no  right  to  think  that,"  he  retorted 
angrily.  "I  will  go  now." 

Sonnenthal  took  a  check-book  from  the  drawer 
of  a  table  in  the  corner. 

"Keep  it  quiet,  Lao.  It  was  nothing  as  I  found 
it,  —  a  simple  melody.  My  wife  used  to  sing  it  — 
I  made  it  great." 


210  VIOLETT 

"Ah,  yes;  you  hatched  the  egg,  but  it  is  his, 
and  he  knows  it." 

It  was  kinder  to  spare  the  Master  the  knowledge 
of  his,  Lao's,  dishonesty;  it  would  hurt  the  Master 
to  know. 

"He  is  clever  enough,  but  he  wants  a  tall  sum 
for  his  wares —  a  hundred  pounds." 

Sonnenthal  wrote  the  check  in  silence.  It  was 
one  of  the  disagreeable  surprises  of  life,  that  was 
all,  —  a  stone  in  the  runner's  sandal. 


VI 

MRS.  SOXNENTHAL  stood  at  the  door  of  Albert 
Hall,  waiting  for  her  carriage.  The  concert  had 
been  a  great  success ;  the  audience,  chiefly  composed 
of  women,  was  most  enthusiastic;  the  programme, 
wisely  composed  of  all  sorts  of  music,  with  just  the 
right  preponderance  of  Chopin,  played  from  be 
ginning  to  end  with  neatness  and  poetry. 

And  the  artist's  wife  listened  with  a  little  smile 
of  melancholy  amusement  to  the  remarks  made  as 
people  crowded  out  into  the  street.  It  was  a  great 
success,  oh,  yes,  and  Felix  would  come  home  con 
tented  and  hungry. 

With  his  characteristic  cynical  audacity  Sonnen- 
thal  had  put  on  his  programme  that  day  his  piano 
arrangement  of  the  sea  poem,  and  though  his  wife 
knew  nothing  of  Violett's  appearance  in  London, 
she  had  listened  to  it  with  quiet  horror.  It  had 
meant  so  much  to  her,  Sonnenthal's  appropriation 
of  the  beautiful  melody.  His  doing  so  had  been 
the  cause  of  her  first  admitting  to  herself  the  fact 
of  his  moral  faultiness. 

But  he  had  played  it  to-day  —  how  he  had 
played  it! 

"Wasn't  that  too  lovely  —  the  sea  poem!"  a 
woman  behind  her  exclaimed  suddenly. 


212  VIOLETT 

"He  is  a  great  genius.  Since  I  heard  the  thing 
years  ago,  I  cannot  hear  the  sea  without  its  beat 
ing  this  thing  of  Sonnenthal's  into  my  ears." 

"Yes.    It  really  is  the  sea's  voice." 

They  had  passed,  and  Mrs.  Sonnenthal's  foot 
man  had  found  her. 

As  she  went  out  of  the  door,  some  one  touched 
her  arm. 

"Miss  Rose!" 

The  pale,  tall  boy  could  be  only  Violett.  With 
a  frightened  blush,  she  shook  hands  with  him. 

"You  here!   In  London!  " 

"I  —  live  here  now.  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  — 
Mrs.  Sonnenthal." 

For  some  reason  it  was  distasteful  to  her  to  have 
him  call  her  by  her  husband's  name.  "  Call  me 
'Miss  Rose,'"  she  said  hurriedly.  "You  must 
come  to  see  me  —  that  is  "  — 

They  had  reached  her  carriage. 

"  Violett,  come  home  with  me  now  I  " 

The  boy  obeyed  gladly,  and  sat  down  by  her  in 
her  brougham. 

"I  have  a  piano,"  he  began  at  once,  "and  —  I 
am  learning  to  play.  I  am  going  to  be  a  com 
poser." 

"You  —  but  tell  me  all  about  it." 

She  was  sorry  now  that  she  had  brought  him. 
Felix  would  not  like  it;  and  Violett  must  have 


VIOLETT  213 

noticed  that  the  motif  of  Sonnenthal's  elaborate 
sea  poem  was  the  old  "Song"  that  years  before 
the  little  brown  boy  had  played  to  the  dreamy-eyed 
girl  in  the  old  rectory  drawing-room. 

"So  I  am  learning.  I  live  with  Mr.  Pidgeon 
now,  and, he  plays  to  me  on  his  violin,  but  I  like 
the  piano  best  "  — 

"Mr.  Pidgeon?    Oh,  yes." 

Then  she  asked  for  news  of  Agnes  and  Michael, 
and  he  told  her  of  a  letter  he  had  had  that  morn 
ing.  Michael  had  an  assistant  now,  and  they 
missed  Violett,  and  was  he  soon  coming  home? 

"But  I  shall  stay  here  until  I  have  learned  a 
great  deal.  I  was  at  the  concert  to-day.  I  heard 
Mr.  Sonnenthal.  I  cried,"  he  added. 

When  the  little  house  in  South  Kensington  was 
reached,  Rose  took  the  boy  to  her  morning-room 
and  rang  for  tea. 

Violett  stood  by  the  fire,  his  eyes  studying  the 
appointments  of  the  charming  room.  Suddenly  he 
exclaimed,  — 

"  He  played  my  '  Song  of  the  Sea. '  Do  you 
remember?" 

She  started.    "Yes  —  I  remember." 

"Mr.  Pidgeon  and  the  two  others  play  it  on 
violins,  but  —  it  is  better  on  the  piano." 

"I  —  think  so  too." 

The  man  brought  in  tea,  and  when  he  had  gone, 


214  VIOLETT 

the  poor  woman  went  on,  "He  of  course  changed 
it  a  great  deal,  Violett,  and  —  made  it  much  more 
beautiful.  It  is  hardly  the  same  thing  now." 

"The  melody  is  the  same  thing.  That  could 
not  change,  you  know." 

She  paused  in  her  occupation  of  pourjng  tea  in 
the  delicate  cups,  and  looked  up  at  him. 

"But  —  you  don't  mind,  do  you?  I  mean,  you 
don't  mind  his  using  it?"  And  then  she  felt  the 
danger  of  her  admission,  and  wished  that  she  had 
not  spoken. 

"Mind?"  The  boy  hesitated.  "I  am  not  sure. 
It  was  mine,  and  I  am  going  to  be  a  composer, 
you  know.  I  should  have  liked  to  —  to  make  it 
into  music  myself." 

As  he  finished,  he  noticed  her  face,  and  came  a 
sudden  step  nearer. 

"But  I  don't  care,  Miss  Eose.  No,  really,  I  do 
not.  You  like  it  better  this  way,  and  so  do  I." 

"But,  Violett  —  do  you  understand  —  if  you  tell 
-it  will  be  — it  will" - 

And  Violett,  kneeling  down  by  her,  laid  his  long 
hands  on  hers,  as  hers  wrung  each  other  help 
lessly. 

"I  know.  I  do  understand.  People  would  say 
—  that  —  I  will  not  tell,  Miss  Kose,  never.  Only, 
don't  look  like  that." 

And  she  accepted  his  sacrifice,  and  let  him  pro- 


VIOLETT  215 

raise,  because  she  loved,  even  while  she  despised, 
her  husband. 

"Even  to  him,  Violett  —  you  will  not  mention 
it?  You  see  —  he  heard  it  so  long  ago  —  I  sup 
pose  he  thinks  it  all  his  own." 

Violett  looked  at  her  gravely  and  rose.  He 
recognized  the  lie. 

"I  think  he  knows,"  he  returned,  gently  uncom 
promising,  "  but  I  '11  not  mention  it  to  him." 

When  Sonnenthal  came  in,  half  an  hour  later, 
and  his  wife  introduced  her  visitor  to  him,  he 
started,  and  gave  a  short  laugh.  Then  he  held  out 
his  hand,  and  with  a  sarcastic  enthusiasm  at  which 
Violett  was  surprised,  welcomed  him  to  his  house. 

"I  hear  that  you  are  a  genius,"  he  began,  sit 
ting  down  and  ringing. 

The  boy  did  not  answer.  He  disliked  Sonnen 
thal,  quite  apart  from  the  matter  of  the  sea  song. 
His  intense  sensitiveness  had  told  him  long  ago 
that  Rose  was  unhappy,  and  now  it  told  him  that 
in  spite  of  her  unhappiness  her  husband  had  influ 
enced  her.  And  he  wished  to  go,  and  was  uncer 
tain  whether  his  immediate  departure  might  not 
hurt  his  hostess. 

Sonnenthal  was  amused  by  the  boy's  audacity, 
as  he  considered  it,  in  coming  to  the  house  of  the 
man  he  was  blackmailing. 

"Were  you  at  my  concert?  "  he  asked  suddenly. 


216  VIOLETT 

"Yes." 

"Did  you  like  it?" 

"Yes." 

Sonnenthal  smiled  at  him,  and  added  a  dash  of 
brandy  to  his  soda. 

"What  did  you  think  of  the  sea  poem?" 

Violett  looked  at  him  thoughtfully  for  a  second. 
Then  he  answered,  "I  think  it  very  beautiful." 

And  his  apparent  self-control  delighted  Sonnen 
thal. 

"Good!  Let 's  go  into  the  next  room,  and  you 
shall  play  to  me." 

But  Violett  refused.  It  was  late,  and  he  must 
go  home. 

Mrs.  Sonnenthal  accompanied  him  to  the  stairs, 
and  as  she  gave  him  her  hand,  whispered,  "Thank 
you,  Violett." 


VII 

VIOLETT  told  no  one  of  his  visit  to  the  Sonnen- 
thals.  lie  deeply  regretted,  in  the  light  of  recent 
events,  that  he  had  already  told  the  three  mu 
sicians  of  his  claim  to  Sonnenthal's  melody,  and 
now  it  seemed  to  him  best  to  let  the  matter  be 
forgotten. 

Petrovsky  had  been  away,  but  old  Barr  and 
Mr.  Pidgeon  played  together  very  frequently,  and 
Violett,  at  the  piano,  was  rapturous.  A  month 
passed,  and  then  a  most  wonderful  thing  hap 
pened. 

One  day  Mrs.  Sonnenthal  sent  a  note  to  Violett, 
asking  him  to  come  to  see  her  that  afternoon.  The 
carriage  was  at  the  door  when  he  arrived;  and, 
telling  him  that  she  had  some  errands  to  do,  she 
bade  him  follow  her  into  it,  and  they  sped  away 
to  the  shops. 

They  went  to  one  where  clothes  were  sold,  and 
she  bought  two  suits  for  the  boy.  Then  a  hat, 
boots,  and  wonderful  linen  and  socks.  Even  gloves 
and  handkerchiefs  were  not  forgotten.  It  was  con 
science  money  that  she  was  spending.  She  knew 
that  she  owed  him  a  great  debt,  and  in  this  way 
she  tried  to  pay  him. 

He  accepted  her  gifts  with  great  joy  and  grati- 


218  VIOLETT 

tude,  but  without  the  least  hesitation.  She  was 
Miss  Rose,  and  he  Violett.  Neither  of  them  men 
tioned  the  "Song  of  the  Sea,"  and  the  boy  had 
indeed  almost  forgotten  it,  otherwise  than  as  some 
thing  in  connection  with  which  he  had  been  able 
to  do  a  favor  to  Miss  Rose. 

He  was  not  ambitious,  and  since  he  had  lived 
with  Pidgeon  had  been  as  happy  as  a  bee  in  a  gar 
den.  That  is  surely  all  that  any  one  can  wish. 

Clad  in  a  well  cut  gray  suit,  with  a  soft  hat  and 
brown  gloves,  simply  vain  of  his  fine  appearance, 
Mr.  Maule,  as  Rose  declared  she  must  now  call 
him,  drove  home  with  Mrs.  Sonnenthal,  and  went 
with  her  into  the  drawing-room. 

"You  know,"  he  said  seriously,  gazing  at  him 
self  in  a  mirror,  "I  think  1  look  almost  like  a 
gentleman  now." 

Rose  laughed  with  an  enjoyment  not  felt  by  her 
for  weeks.  "You  are  a  dear!  Now  play  to  me." 

And  Violett  played,  for  they  were  alone.  He 
played  as  he  never  had  before,  for  behind  him 
lay  six  weeks  of  hard  work,  and  a  wave  of  inspira 
tion  caught  him  and  tossed  him  heavenward. 

When  at  length  he  broke  off,  Sonnenthal  stood 
by  him. 

"That  was  splendid!  Shake  hands  with  me." 
The  great  man's  face  looked  less  pleasant  than 
usual,  and  was  therefore  much  more  pleasing. 


VIOLETT  219 

"You  are  going  to  be  a  musician,  and  I  am  going 
to  help  you." 

Violett's  helpless  face  amused  while  it  puzzled 
him. 

"  Oh,  I  know  —  you  do  not  like  me.  But  neither 
do  I  like  you.  You  yourself  may  go  to  the  devil 
for  all  I  care,  but  —  your  music  must  be  saved. 
So  I  am  going  to  give,  you  lessons." 

Mrs.  Sonnenthal  had  drawn  nearer.  "Violett, 
why  don't  you  thank  him?  He  has  never  given 
lessons  to  any  one." 

But  the  Master,  good-naturedly  attributing  the 
boy's  embarrassment  to  remorse,  waved  her  aside. 

"I  want  no  thanks.  It  will  not  be  amusing,  que 
diable,  to  be  my  pupil,  but  I  will  drag  it  out  of 
you,  the  music.  Now  go,  and  come  here  to-morrow 
at  ten." 

Violett  gave  a  little  nervous  shiver.  Sonnenthal 
was  personally  repugnant  to  him.  He  hated  the 
thought  of  coming  into  frequent  contact  with  him. 
And  then  the  man's  own  remark,  "You  yourself 
may  go  to  the  devil,  but  your  music  "  •  "Thank 
you,"  he  said,  taking  up  his  hat;  "it  is  very  good 
of  you."  Then  he  went  home. 


VIII 

IT  was  a  curious  alliance,  that  between  Sonnenthal 
and  Violett.  The  personal  antipathy  of  each  for 
the  other,  confronted  by  their  mutual  musical  sym 
pathy,  tried  hard  to  efface  itself,  and  succeeded 
only  in  hiding  behind  backs,  so  to  say. 

Sonnenthal  naturally  added  to  his  old  distaste 
for  the  boy  a  scorn  for  the  supposed  blackmailer, 
while  Violett  —  feeling  more  and  more,  as  time 
went  on,  how  his  master's  inherent  falsity  had 
influenced  the  once  beautifully  upright  Kose,  — 
still  shivered  uncomfortably  at  the  very  sound  of 
his  voice. 

Yet,  bound  by  their  great  tie,  the  two  gave  each 
other  their  best;  they  worked  together  with  that 
steady  enthusiasm  that  can  accomplish  such  won 
ders,  and  eagerly  they  watched  the  wonder  grow. 

Violett  learned  with  a  surprising  rapidity,  and 
anything  that  he  learned  was  his  for  the  rest  of 
his  life. 

After  a  few  weeks  of  daily  lessons,  Sonnenthal 
bade  him,  with  the  new  gruff  ness  that  his  wife  so 
loved,  to  pack  up  all  his  belongings  and  come  to 
live  in  his  house.  "I  must  be  near  you;  it  must 
be  one  long  lesson,"  he  added,  and  Violett  obeyed, 
with  a  perfunctory  expression  of  thanks.  He  loved 


VIOLETT  221 

living  with  Pidgeon,  and  he  would  hate  being  un 
der  the  same  roof  with  Sonnenthal ;  but  he  came  at 
once,  telling  old  Pidgeon,  in  the  same  passive 
obedience  to  Sonnenthal,  merely  that  he  was  going 
away  for  a  time.  The  great  man  had  said,  "  I  wish 
no  one  to  know  that  you  are  my  pupil ;  I  should  be 
tortured  with  applications,  so  hold  your  tongue." 

Upstairs  in  his  room,  the  boy  had  an  upright 
piano,  and  here  it  was  that  he  did  his  work.  Ris 
ing  every  day  at  dawn,  he  went  for  a  walk,  creep 
ing  down  the  dark  stairs  into  the  gray  streets,  and 
after  an  hour's  wandering,  during  which  he  saw 
little  and  heard  much,  returned  to  breakfast. 

Then  came  work  until  noon,  a  sleep,  according 
to  orders,  more  work,  a  drive  or  a  walk,  and  late 
in  the  afternoon  Sonnenthal  played  for  him.  It 
was  an  hour  for  which  many  people  would  have 
paid  many  pounds,  but  to  the  obscure  boy  it  was 
not  all  pleasure. 

Sonnenthal  put  his  soul,  such  as  it  was,  into  his 
music,  and  Violett,  hearing  the  weakness  and  dis 
cords  of  that  soul  through  the  strength  and  beauty 
of  the  music,  was  hurt  as  much  as  he  was  made 
happy  by  it. 

And  always,  when  music  was  not  the  business 
of  the  moment,  the  boy  avoided  the  man,  and  the 
man  avoided  the  boy.  Sonnenthal,  quite  unashamed 
of  his  theft  of  the  melody,  a  theft  so  intangible  as 


'222  VIOLETT 

to  be  almost  none,  thought  that  he  read  in  Violett's 
eyes  a  constant  memory  of  it ;  while  Violett,  re 
membering  his  promise  to  Rose,  but  rarely  recall 
ing  the  reason  for  the  promise,  was  uncomfortable 
in  the  man's  presence  chiefly  because  he  disliked 
him,  and  helplessly  resented  Rose's  love  for  him 
who  was  so  greatly  her  inferior. 

One  morning  in  June  Violett  was  taking  his 
walk.  It  was  the  beginning  of  a  beautiful  day,  and 
the  trees  in  the  park,  washed  with  a  gentle  rain  in 
the  night,  were  crisp  and  green  against  the  pale 
sky. 

Violett  was  very  happy.  In  a  week  Sonnenthal 
and  his  wife  were  going  to  the  sea,  and  the  even 
ing  before,  Rose  had  told  the  boy  that  he  was  to 
go  with  them. 

The  thought  of  being  again  by  the  water,  of 
sitting  in  warm  sand  and  listening  to  the  waves, 
was  a  delight.  After  all,  people  were  very  kind  to 
him.  Sonnenthal  knew  about  his  father,  and  did 
not  care.  Violett  wished  he  could  like  Sonnen 
thal;  gratitude  is  bitter  where  no  love  can  be. 

But  he  could  play  now;  he  was  working  at  a 
tough  problem  of  Bach's,  and  the  beauty  of  it  be 
gan  to  shine  through ;  and  then  a  new  song  in  his 
own  mind  was  almost  ready  to  come  to  his  fingers, 
—  a  soft,  lonely  melody,  as  the  sky  seen  through 
bare  boughs. 


VIOLETT  223 

Suddenly,  in  one  of  the  most  beautiful  parts  of 
the  park,  he  turned  a  corner,  and  there  was  Min 
nie,  —  Minnie  wrapped  in  a  little  shawl,  though 
it  was  so  warm;  Minnie  in  a  flat  hat  on  which 
bloomed  the  one  rose  in  the  world. 

"Stevie!" 

"Minnie!" 

They  stood  staring  at  each  other  for  a  second, 
and  then  he  turned  and  walked  into  paradise  with 
her. 

"How  long  is  it?  "  he  asked  at  length. 

"  Oh  —  very  long.    Are  you  —  are  you  well  ?  " 

He  laughed.  "Well?  Oh,  yes.  And  you?  No, 
Minnie,  you  are  not  well,  you  are  ill." 

She  did  not  deny  it. 

"It  has  been  warm  —  and  I  've  hurt  my  arm." 

He  saw  that  her  delicate  little  arm  was  in  a  stiff 
bandage  and  hung  in  a  sling,  and  his  heart  seemed 
to  stand  quite  still. 

"How  —  what  was  it?  "  he  asked  when  he  could 
get  his  breath. 

She  flushed.  "I  —  I  fell  downstairs.  I  'm  liv 
ing  in Street,  now,  you  know." 

Violett  did  not  know ;  he  knew  nothing. 

"I'm  married,"  she  went  on  hurriedly,  sitting 
down  on  a  bench,  and  stooping  to  tie  her  shoe. 

"To  — Mr.  d'Orsay?" 

"Yes.    'Is  name  's  Dunn." 


224  VIOLETT 

"Oh!  "  There  was  a  short  silence,  while  Violett 
watched  a  fat  robin  eat  a  fat  worm,  and  wondered 
how  he  could  have  lived  without  knowing  that  she 
was  married.  What  had  he  been  doing  on  her 
wedding  day? 

"Stevie  —  have  you  forgiven  me?"  And  oh, 
the  little  catch  in  her  voice! 

"I  hadn't  anything  to  forgive  you  for,  Minnie. 
It  was  —  impossible,  and  I  ought  to  have  known 
it." 

"It  wouldn't  'ave  been  impossible  if  I  hadn't 
been  —  a  fool." 

The  bitterness  in  her  voice  was  so  unchildlike 
and  so  new  that  the  boy  turned  and  looked  at  her. 

"Oh,  Min,  don't  cry!" 

The  tears  stood  still  on  her  curved  lashes,  and 
she  tried  to  smile,  to  comfort  him.  "I  —  am  tired, 
Stevie,  that 's  all." 

"But,  Minnie  —  you  are  happy?" 

He  watched  her  anxiously  as  she  answered,  — 

"Oh,  that  !    Yes,  of  course  I'm  'appy." 

He  told  her  about  his  music,  that  he  was  living 
with  Sonnenthal,  that  he  was  going  to  the  sea. 

Then  she  told  him  that  Sam  was  very  good  to 
her,  that  fond  of  'er,  that  she  was  of  course  not 
singing  now,  because  of  her  arm,  that  Sam  had  no 
employment  at  present,  but  the  prospect  of  some 
thing  very  fine  for  the  autumn. 


VIOLETT  225 

And  now  the  sun  was  out  in  all  his  glory,  and 
the  trees  sparkled,  and  the  robins  dug  fresh  pink 
worms  out  of  the  silvery  grass. 

Minnie,  who  would  not  let  Violett  accompany 
her  home,  told  him  that  she  came  every  morning 
for  a  walk  in  the  park,  as  she  slept  very  badly  and 
the  air  did  her  good.  Then  they  parted,  and  Vio 
lett  flew  back  to  his  piano,  and  in  its  wonderful 
responsiveness  it  sang  to  him  all  the  bliss  of  the 
morning. 

"What's  that  you're  playing?"  Sonnenthal 
asked,  coming  in  suddenly. 

"It's  — I  don't  know." 

The  Master  sat  down  at  the  table.  "Well,  play 
it  again  and  I  '11  scratch  it  down  for  you." 

As  he  did  so  he  watched  Violett.  He  had  never 
mentioned  the  blackmailing  to  the  boy.  If  he  did 
so,  he  thought  it  would  be  impossible  to  continue 
the  relations  it  pleased  him  to  maintain  with  his 
protege.  And  now  he  was  wondering  whether 
Violett  was  not  ashamed,  and  congratulating  him 
self  on  the  fact  that  after  all  the  benefits  received 
at  his  hands,  the  boy  could  never  in  any  way 
use  his  knowledge  about  the  most  famous  of  all 
the  Master's  compositions. 

There  is  now,  much  played  by  orchestras,  a 
beautiful  symphonic  poem  by  Felix  Sonnenthal 
called  "A  Morning  Walk." 


IX 

THE  beauty  of  dawn  and  its  succeeding  hour  is 
such  that  those  who  know  and  love  it  must  wonder 
that  these  hours  are  wasted  by  almost  every  one. 

The  praise  of  moonlight  and  of  starlight  is  sung 
by  the  most  unpoetic,  and  even  prosaic  lovers  pre 
fer  to  meet  in  the  evening  rather  than  at  broad 
noon  or  staring  three  o'clock. 

But  the  wonderful,  ethereal,  breathless  charm  of 
the  early  morning  is  better  than  that  of  evening. 
The  baby  day  is  winsome  as  it  opens  its  sleepy 
eyes,  and  worldly  troubles  and  worries  seem  smaller 
then  than  at  any  other  hour. 

Violett,  a  musician  and  a  lover,  met  Minnie 
every  morning  under  the  wise  old  trees  in  the  park, 
and  every  minute  he  passed  with  her  was  an  eter 
nity  of  happiness. 

The  young  woman  herself,  so  much  wiser  in 
worldly  things,  wondered  at  him.  There  was  no 
jealousy  in  him;  none  of  the  misery  she  would 
have  expected.  She  was  his  for  that  one  hour, 
and  he  was  satisfied. 

At  first,  to  try  him,  she  had  talked  of  her  hus 
band,  telling  how  happy  they  were  together.  And 
then  Violett's  unselfish  contentment  disarmed  her, 


VIOLETT  227 

and  she  gave  herself  up  to  the  pleasure  of  being 
with  him. 

He  had  improved  in  every  way,  and  her  poor, 
sordid  little  heart  rejoiced  in  his  good  clothes,  in 
the  careless  way  he  wore  his  hat,  in  his  neat  nails. 
She  was  proud  of  him. 

"I  am  sorry  you  are  going  away,  Stevie,"  she 
said  on  the  third  morning  after  their  first  meeting. 
"I  shall  miss  you." 

"I  shall  miss  you,  too,  Min.  Why  won't  you 
let  me  come  to  see  you? " 

"Because  —  we  'ave  such  a  small  room.  It's 
uncomfortable  for  visits." 

"Oh!   You  don't  like  it?" 

Something  like  horror  was  in  his  voice,  as  he 
thought  of  his  luxurious  little  nest  at  Sonnenthal's. 

"Like  it?"  Minnie  hesitated  for  a  minute. 
Should  she  play  on  his  pity?  No.  "It  is  our 
home,  Stevie,  so  of  course  we  love  it,"  she  an 
swered  with  a  real  dignity  behind  the  assumed. 

"Well  —  why  mayn't  I  come?  I  —  I  should 
like  to  tell  Mr.  —  Dunn  that  I  am  sorry  I  used 
to  not  like  him." 

"Do  you  like  him  now?" 

Violett  turned  his  eyes  full  on  her,  while  he  re 
flected.  She  could  almost  see  his  thoughts  at 
work. 

"I  like  him  for  making  you  happy,  Minnie." 


228  VIOLETT 

And  she  turned  to  hide  the  twist  of  her  mouth. 
There  was  something  so  childlike,  so  innocent  in 
his  love  for  her,  that  in  spite  of  his  year  or  more 
of  seniority,  a  feeling  almost  maternal  prompted 
her  to  preserve  it. 

Minnie  had  grown  old  suddenly. 

Once  as  they  sat  together  at  the  edge  of  a  wind 
ing  bridle-path,  watching  the  sun's  upward  pro 
gress  behind  big  tree  trunks,  velvety  with  recent 
rain,  she  asked  him  the  question  that  she  had  been 
pondering  ever  since  their  first  morning  meeting,  — 

"Stevie  —  did  you  care  much?" 

"Yes,  I  cared.    A  great  deal,  Min." 

His  face  was  so  calm  and  unmoved  that  in  spite 
of  her  good  resolutions  the  girl  went  on,  — 

"How  did  you  —  get  over  it  so  quickly?  " 

"But  I  haven't  got  over  it." 

Her  painted  face  flushed.  "I  mean  —  you  are 
happy  now  ?  Without  me  ?  " 

"I  am  happy.  Yes.  You  —  are  n't  afraid  of  me 
any  more,  Min." 

And  she  understood. 

"If  I  hadn't  been  afraid  then,  that  evening, 
Stevie  —  I  'd  'ave  been  —  your  wife  now." 

He  did  not  answer. 

"I  'd  'ave  been  your  wife." 

"Yes.  But  —  of  course  you  couldn't,  dear;  I 
understand.  It  is  too  —  horrible.  Your  liking  me 


VIOLETT  229 

again  and  not  minding  is  almost  too  good  to  be 
true." 

His  short  upper  lip  was  shaded  with  a  soft  down, 
she  noticed  as  he  spoke,  and  he  had  grown  heavier. 
His  hands  were  muscular,  and  the  carriage  of  his 
head  less  dreamy  and  more  assured.  He  wore  a 
white  carnation  in  his  coat. 

The  next  morning  when  he  came,  she  ran  to 
him,  her  hands  outstretched. 

"Stevie,  don't  go  away!" 

"Away?" 

"I  mean  to  the  sea.    I  want  you." 

He  took  her  hands  in  his  and  swung  them  lightly 
to  and  fro.  "You  want  me,  Min?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  — I'll  stay." 

And  he  stayed,  accepting  Sonnenthal's  anger 
and  Rose's  reproaches  with  gentle  determination. 

The  day  after  their  departure,  he  went  as  usual 
to  the  park  at  dawn,  but  Minnie  did  not  come. 

The  morning  was  Very  long,  and  for  the  first 
time  he  realized  how  utterly  he  depended  on  her; 
how  empty  the  world  was  without  her.  Pie  knew 
this;  he  saw  that  the  shadows  were  darker,  the 
sunlight  paler,  the  birds  less  joyous,  the  air  less 
sweet,  and  yet  he  did  not  guess  why. 

And  when  she  came  across  the  silvery  grass 
under  the  oaks,  the  next  day,  her  small  white 


230  VIOLETT 

face  shadowed  by  a  big  hat,  he  did  not  know  why 
everything  became  in  a  heart-beat  so  sublimely 
beautiful. 

She,  of  course,  knew.  Her  dark  eyes  glowed  as 
she  watched  him,  and  with  a  delicious  pang  she 
realized  why  it  was  that  their  meeting  eyes  held 
the  sun. 

And  her  delicate  lips  quivered  with  a  half  ma 
ternal  mockery  of  his  innocence. 

They  wandered  about  in  the  greenness ;  they  fed 
the  swans;  they  sat  hand  in  hand  on  rustic  benches 
and  watched  children  playing  on  the  grass. 

And  every  day  the  wonder  of  meeting  came  to 
pass. 

The  world  was  pulsing  with  harmony  for  Vio- 
lett,  but  he  did  not  touch  his  piano  during  that 
week;  the  music  was  everywhere  about  him. 

It  was  not  he  who  touched  the  wrong  note  that 
brought  jarring  discord  into  the  whole. 

On  the  last  and  the  fairest  morning  of  the  week 
the  two  were  sitting  on  the  bench  near  where  they 
had  first  met,  talking  of  the  old  days  by  the  sea. 

Minnie's  wan  little  hand  lay  idly  in  the  boy's, 
but  their  talk  was  of  sand  houses  and  wading;  of 
the  color  of  the  sea  music  and  the  rushing  of  sud 
den  storms. 

"Do  you  remember"  — 

"Z>o  I  remember?" 


VIOLETT  231 

And  thus  d'Orsay  found  them. 

What  he  said  does  not  matter.  It  was  the  foul- 
mouthed  accusation  of  a  half-drunken  scoundrel 
mad  with  jealousy.  Minnie,  trembling  and  crying, 
shrank  away  into  the  shrubbery,  but  the  boy, 
awakened  out  of  his  innocent  dream  of  happiness, 
faced  her  accuser. 

"Sneakin'  out  'ere,"  went  on  Dunn,  "to  meet 
a  little  beast  like  you !  "  And  then  all  the  anger 
that  he  had  ever  felt  in  his  life  took  possession  of 
the  murderer's  son.  His  face  lost  its  color,  his  eyes 
turned,  and  with  a  short  yell  he  sprang  at  the  big 
ger  man,  who,  taken  by  surprise,  stumbled  and  fell 
full  length  on  the  grass. 

Minnie  saw  her  champion  kneel  on  her  hus 
band's  chest;  she  saw  the  lithe,  long  hands  fasten 
around  Dunn's  throat,  and  she  heard  Violett  say 
—  something ;  she  could  not  tell  what.  And  then 
suddenly  Violett  let  go  and  rose. 

He  stood  stupidly  staring  at  the  prostrate  man, 
and  then  said  slowly,  "  It  was  —  my  father  —  who 
killed.  Not  I." 

"Violett!" 

Minnie  had  never  before  uttered  the  name.  He 
turned  to  her. 

"I  — thank  you,  Violett." 

The  boy  shook  his  head  vaguely.  "He  knows 
he  lied,  Minnie.  And  —  it  was  my  father,  not  I." 


232  VIOLETT 

Minnie  caught  his  hand.  "He's  fainted,  dear. 
Go  now,  and  —  to-morrow  come  in  the  morning." 

She  saw  his  eyes  change ;  she  saw  the  innocence 
go  out  of  them ;  she  saw  selfishness,  evil  thought, 
and  ruthlessness  come  into  them.  But  she  called 
the  new  look  love,  and  crept  into  his  arms.  And 
by  the  fainting  man's  side  he  kissed  her  fiercely, 
holding  her  so  close  that  she  felt  the  pumping  of 
his  heart. 

"To-morrow,  yes,  and  every  day.  Come  —  we 
will  go  now,  Min  —  you  and  I.  You  can't  stay 
with  him.  You  belong  to  me.  You  love  me  and 
I  love  you.  He  "  —  he  touched  the  inanimate  body 
scornfully  with  his  foot —  "is  a  beast;  he  does  not 
need  you." 

"Yes.    We  wiU  go." 

He  had  loved  her  all  his  life,  and  now  at  last 
he  had  waked  up,  and  she  was  his.  He  gave  a  loud 
laugh  at  his  own  silly  dreaming.  He  had  indeed 
slept. 

Suddenly  his  eyes  caught  the  crimson  glow  of 
the  sun  on  the  water.  It  was  like  blood ;  it  was 
the  color  he  hated.  The  wind  had  come  up  and 
swung  the  boughs  above  him.  Where  was  the 
harmony?  Where  was  the  symphonic  splendor  of 
nature's  music  ?  It  was  all  confusion. 

And  his  taking  Minnie  meant  eternal  confusion, 
for  it  was  not  in  harmony. 


VIOLETT  233 

"I  —  can't  do  it,  Minnie,"  he  said  slowly.  "It 
would  kill  us  both." 

She  stared  ;  then  she  wept.  "He  beats  me, 
Stevie  — Violett.  He  threw  me  downstairs;  he 
is  always  drinking.  I  can't  go  back." 

And  then  Violett,  who  had  been  in  a  church 
only  half  a  dozen  times  in  his  life,  preached  a 
sermon. 

"You  must.  I'd  rather  die  than  let  you;  I 
think  it  will  kill  me  to  have  you,  but  you  must. 
I  don't  know  why,  but  it 's  so.  If  you  did  n't  it 
would  be  out  of  tune  and  horrible.  God  meant 
it  so." 

Then  he  kissed  her  hands,  and  ran  across  the 
sward  to  the  nearest  park  entrance.  He  told  a 
policeman  that  a  man  had  fainted,  and  then  slowly 
went  home.  The  crimson  light  faded  as  he  went. 


WHEN  a  small  cloud  creeps  across  a  sunny  sky, 
its  little  shadow  skimming  over  the  placid  world 
below;  when  a  puff  of  wind  stirs  quiet  leaves  with 
ominous  caprice ;  when  a  dark  note  occurs  in  the 
summer  harmony;  when,  in  a  word,  a  storm  begins 
to  gather  its  scattered  forces,  its  beginnings,  com 
ing  singly,  are  so  surprisingly  insignificant  that 
when  the  light  has  gone,  carrying  with  it  the  brood 
ing  quiet  of  warm  days,  one  looks  in  vain  for  even 
a  bit  of  blueness  above,  a  still  corner  below.  And 
so  it  was  with  Violett. 

He  had  lost  Minnie ;  he  had  lost  his  innocence 
of  heart;  he  had  lost  the  sense  of  harmony  that 
seemed  music  to  him ;  and  to  complete  his  misery, 
he  lost  Rose  Sonnenthal's  friendship. 

When  he  reached  the  villa  at  Eastbourne  the 
next  day,  he  found  its  mistress  alone  in  the  draw 
ing-room,  sitting  idly  by  the  window.  Violett 
stood  by  the  door,  gazing  at  her  with  a  simple  reve 
lation  of  his  unhappiness  in  his  eyes.  She  loved 
him ;  she  must  know  that  he  was  miserable ;  it  was 
very  simple. 

But  when  she  looked  up,  she  laughed.  "So 
you  have  come  back !  Why  ?  " 

"Why?" 


VIOLETT  235 

"Yes.  Is  it  music  you  have  come  for,  or 
money?" 

He  stared.    "What  do  you  mean,  Miss  Rose?  " 

She  laughed  again. 

"I  mean  that  my  husband  has  told  me  of  your 
first  communication  with  him." 

It  was  an  ugly  laugh;  for  the  story  of  the  boy's 
supposed  blackmail,  an  amusing  incident  to  Son- 
nenthal,  told  in  an  after-dinner  mood,  had  been 
another  blow  to  her  tottering  faith  in  human  na 
ture. 

Violett  sat  down  and  clasped  his  hands,  sitting 
there  in  the  nervous  immobility  usual  to  him  in 
moments  of  agitation. 

"Please  tell  me,"  he  said  slowly,  "what  you 
mean." 

"  I  mean  that  your  —  your  courage,  in  coming 
here  and  accepting  my  husband's  ch  —  kindness, 
after  blackmailing  him,  is  —  no  less  admirable  than 
surprising." 

"  What  is  —  blackmailing  ?  " 

As  she  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  the  hateful 
laugh  once  more  stirring  her  pale  lips,  the  door 
opened  and  Sonnenthal  came  in. 

"A  la  bonheur!  My  dear  boy,  I  am  glad  to 
see  you  again! " 

His  dark  face  beamed  with  the  kindness  of  one 
delighted  at  feeling  a  sharp  and  useful  implement 


236  VIOLETT 

again  in  his  unaccustomed  hand.  "I  have  missed 
you!" 

Then  suddenly  turning  to  his  wife,  "Well, 
what 's  wrong?  " 

"Master,"  asked  the  boy  eagerly,  "what  is 
blackmailing?  " 

Sonnenthal  smiled  at  him  and  scowled  at  Rose 
at  the  same  time. 

"So  you  have  been  doing  that,  my  dear?  You 
have  told  him!  Never  mind,  Violett,  it  is  for 
given  and  forgotten.  You  are  you,  and  I  am  I; 
that  is  sufficient.  Come,  play  for  me." 

"  It  —  Felix  —  how  can  you  ?  You  are  so  good, 
so  generous,"  she  cried  piteously,  with  the  sad 
enthusiasm  of  one  eager  to  admire  what  he  loves. 
"No  one  but  you  could  forgive  " 

"Ah,  bah!  I  want  him  to  play.  I  tell  you,  he 
may  do  what  he  likes,  and  I  don't  care.  Genius 
must  be  many-sided." 

Violett,  not  understanding,  felt  that  the  man 
who  was  kind  to  him  was  selfish  and  bad ;  that  the 
cruel  woman  was  good  and  heartbroken  in  her 
unkindness. 

"I  —  cannot  play,"  he  stammered. 

Sonnenthal  clapped  him  genially  on  the  shoul 
der.  "Nonsense!  Of  course  you  can  play.  Don't 
bother  about  —  that  any  more." 

And  then,  embittered  and  miserable  as  she  was, 


VIOLETT  237 

Hose  Sonnentlial  uttered  the  most  cruel  words  of 
her  life. 

"Very  well  —  have  him  play,  by  all  means. 
After  all,  his  being  a  blackmailer  is  not  so  sur 
prising,  —  blood  will  tell." 

Sonnenthal  stared.  It  was  uncomfortably  crude 
of  her. 

"Leave  the  room!  "  he  shouted  angrily.  "And 
be  good  enough  to  let  me  manage  my  own  affairs 
without  any  unsolicited  assistance.  I  have  not  yet 
reached  the  point  where  I  need  help  from  a  whin 
ing  fool  like  you  !  " 

He  gave  a  snarling  laugh,  and  without  an  in 
stant's  hesitation  Violett  struck  him,  his  cham 
pion  and  protector,  across  the  mouth. 

A  minute  later,  a  pale-faced  man,  with  the  bit 
terness  of  self-disdain  in  his  eyes,  stood  on  the 
beach  listening  to  the  beating  of  the  inharmonious 
waves.  It  was  Violett. 


PART  IV 


AGNES'  love  for  Violett  was  most  rarely  beautiful, 
for  it  was  untainted  by  curiosity. 

When  he  came  back,  broken  and  still,  with  a 
dazed  look  in  his  eyes,  she  had  not  a  single  ques 
tion  for  him.  Open  arms  and  a  silent  tongue  were 
her  simple  welcome,  and  he  accepted  it  without  a 
word  of  gratitude. 

He  told  nothing  of  his  recent  life ;  she  knew,  for 
he  had  written  occasionally,  of  his  living  with  Son- 
nenthal,  and  that  he  was  not  married.  She  knew, 
too,  that  he  had  come  back  home  with  something 
as  near  to  a  broken  heart  as  ever  beat  in  a  man's 
breast.  That  was  all,  and  it  was  enough. 

The  days  passed,  and  Violett  hardly  knew  it. 
He  sat  for  hours,  without  moving,  in  the  sand,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  summer  ocean.  His  was  the  pain 
of  living  over  and  over  the  unchangeable. 

With  pulsing  monotony  the  scenes  he  had  lived 
through  came  back  to  him  in  ceaseless  reiteration, 
—  the  beautiful  morning  hours  with  Minnie,  hours 
white-winged  and  sunny,  innocent  as  those  of  child 
hood  ;  his  joy  in  being  with  her,  in  gazing  into  the 
lucent  depths  of  her  sombre  eyes,  of  touching  her 
hand. 

And  then  the  awakening!     The  hideous  quarrel 


242  VIOLETT 

with  d'Orsay;  the  still  more  hideous  rapture  of 
holding  d'Orsay's  wife  to  his  heart;  the  awful 
confusion,  his  flight  through  the  busy  town.  Over 
and  over  it  turned  in  his  mind  like  a  wheel  of 
fire. 

And  then  Rose  Sonnenthal's  incomprehensible 
unkindness;  Sonnenthal's  kindness;  his  own  love 
for  Rose  and  dislike  for  the  man.  "She  was  cruel 
to  me  and  I  love  her !  he  was  kind  to  me  and  I  hate 
him!" 

His  untrained  mind,  tortured  beyond  endurance, 
clung  with  weary  persistence  to  these  puzzling 
facts.  Over  and  over  he  asked  himself  why  he 
loved  Rose  and  hated  Sonnenthal. 

Sometimes  he  fell  asleep  in  the  sun,  and  awoke 
with  new  strength  for  thought.  Sometimes  he 
went  in  swimming,  but  he  could  not  go  far,  for 
fear  of  the  cramp  that  seized  him  when  overtired, 
so  he  sat  almost  all  the  time  by  the  edge  of  the 
water  he  loved. 

He  was  not  far  from  madness,  those  long,  golden 
summer  days.  And  the  longing  for  Minnie  grew 
greater  instead  of  less,  and  he  knew  that  it  was 
evil,  and  he  hated  it,  for  he  was  pure  in  heart. 

Work,  that  greatest  blessing  of  God,  was  un 
known  to  him ;  he  had  never  worked  in  his  life, 
and  the  terribly  potent  demons  of  idleness  hovered 
about  him  with  unceasing  energy. 


VIOLETT  243 

When  the  sound  of  the  sea  at  last  grew  from  its 
dreadful  discords  into  a  new  song,  it  was  a  song 
that  in  its  beauty  was  far  worse  than  the  old  lack 
of  harmony.  It  was  a  song  of  Minnie  —  of  the  new 
Minnie;  of  the  Minnie  he  had  kissed.  And  it 
pulsed  and  beat  in  his  ears  until  they  ached.  It  told 
him  of  life  somewhere  far  away,  —  where  Minnie 
and  he  might  be  always  together;  where  he  would 
be  hers  and  she  his,  and  where  nothing  else  mat 
tered.  And  sometimes  he  would  rise  and  look  back 
towards  the  clump  of  wood  that  hid  the  road  lead 
ing  to  the  station. 

When  the  moon  came,  the  song  took  on  new  en 
chantments.  It  was  the  most  exquisite  melody  in 
the  world  then,  surely.  And  in  a  cloud  he  once 
saw  Minnie's  face. 

He  read  no  books ;  it  was  a  waste  of  time  that 
might  be  spent  with  Minnie.  One  day  in  Septem 
ber  Bob  Venn  came  over  to  the  island,  bringing  a 
letter.  When  Violett  caught  sight  of  the  sun  on 
the  fisherman's  sail  he  knew  that  it  was  Bob,  and 
that  he  had  a  letter,  and  that  the  letter  was  from 
Minnie. 

When  he  was  alone  in  the  Cradle,  he  read  the 
letter,  which  was  written  on  pink  paper  like  the 
inside  of  a  shell,  and  which  smelled  like  Minnie's 
little  handkerchiefs.  The  scent  made  his  head 
swim  for  a  minute,  but  presently  he  could  read. 


244  VIOLETT 

DEAK  VIOLETT,  —  Are  you  not  going  to  write 
to  me  again?  Where  are  you?  Are  you  well? 
Sam  was  very  bad ;  his  head  was  hurt  when  he  fell 
against  the  roots  of  the  tree.  He  treats  me  very 
cruel.  If  you  do  not  come  I  think  I  shall  kill  my 
self.  I  go  every  day  to  the  park. 

MINNIE. 

The  waves,  breaking  on  the  rocks  below,  laughed 
softly  at  his  hesitation  and  sang,  "  Why  not  ?  Why 
not?" 

And  then  he  remembered  what  Rose  Sonnenthal 
had  said,  "It  is  not  surprising  —  blood  will  tell." 

And  the  comfort  of  hereditary  sin  crept  over 
him.  He  was  his  father's  son. 

He  rose  and  went  back  to  the  house.  Agnes 
looked  up  at  him  with  her  blind  eyes. 

"Vi'lett?" 

"Yes,  Agnes." 

She  laughed  gently.  "You  said  that  just  like 
your  mother,  dearie,  — '  Yes,  Agnes, '  like  a  little 
flute!" 

"Tell  me  about  my  mother." 

He  sat  down  at  her  feet,  as  he  had  done  when  a 
child. 

"She  was  little  and  thin  and  gentle.  She  did 
not  talk  much,  and  her  eyes  were  sweet,  like  a 
child's." 


VIOLETT  246 

"Did  she  — love  my  father?  " 

The  old  woman  hesitated.    "Yes,  she  loved  him." 

"But  she  was  not  happy." 

"No,  she  was  not  happy."  In  the  silence  the 
old  clock  ticked  gravely.  It  must  have  ticked  just 
so  during  her  short  life  there.  And  Agnes  had 
been  there;  only  he,  Violett,  had  not  been  there! 
If  he  had,  she  would  have  been  happier.  Or  if 
she  were  there  now,  he  would  be  happier. 

"Agnes,"  he  said  at  length,  "when  you  don't 
know  what  to  do,  what  do  you  do?" 

The  old  woman  laid  her  wrinkled  hand  on  his 
head.  "I  pray,  dearie." 

The  boy  went  slowly  back  to  the  edge  of  the 
water.  He  did  not  pray ;  but  he  did  not  write  to 
Minnie,  nor  did  he  go. 

That  night  there  was  a  storm,  and  its  savage 
splendor  was  grateful  to  him.  All  night  he  sat  at 
the  edge  of  the  garden  listening  to  the  thumping 
of  the  monster  waves  on  the  rocks  beneath.  The 
moon  was  full,  and  its  intermittent  glory,  shining 
forth  from  between  racing  cloud-rack,  fell  on  the 
tumbling  sea  like  peace  on  a  troubled  mind. 

"  '  The  face  of  the  waters,'  "  Violett  repeated 
over  and  over  to  himself,  finding  a  vague  consola 
tion  in  the  words. 

The  thought  of  Minnie  faded  as  time  passed. 
He  was  too  tired  to  think  of  anything,  and  the 


246  VIOLETT 

cooling  hand  of  nature  lay  on  his  hot  brow  and 
quieted  him. 

At  dawn  the  storm  ceded  to  the  glory  of  coming 
day,  and  as  the  sky  grew  full  of  faint  color  the 
waves  sank  to  a  quiet,  slumberous  movement  that 
caressed  the  gleaming  sand. 

Violett  had  fallen  asleep,  his  arms  clasped  about 
his  knees. 

When  he  awoke,  he  sat  listening  tensely  for  a 
moment,  and  then  a  happy  change  came  to  his  pale 
young  face,  and  his  eyes  filled.  The  "  Song  of  the 
Sea "  had  come  back  to  him ;  his  troubled  sound 
world  had  subsided  with  the  waves  into  perfect 
harmony. 


n 

"Ax  engigement,  Miss?    You?" 

Mr.  Reginald  Moss  knocked  the  ash  of  his  cigar 
into  a  brass  cup,  and  smiled.  "Sleep's  wot  you 
want,  and  Bovril,  if  not  *  Force,'  and  'igh  air  — 
I  should  say  St.  Moritz,  my  dear." 

"Oh,  rot!  I  can  sing,  if  I  am  ill,  I  tell  you." 

"111?  Be  as  ill  as  you  like,  my  love,  that 's  no 
hodds.  The  thing  you  cawn't  be  on  the  stige  is 
a  living  skeleton,  and  that 's  wot  you  're  a-getting 
to  be." 

Minnie's  eyes  filled  with  helpless  tears.  "I 
know  it.  Oh,  /  know.  But  I  can't  help  it,  and 
I  must  live.  Maud  Courtenay  told  me  to  come  to 
you." 

Moss's  eyes  twinkled.  "Maudie!  Ah,  that's 
another  thing.  Maudie  's  young  and  pretty  and 
plump.  I  'm  sorry,  Miss,  but  I  tell  you  frankly, 
I  cawn't  do  anything  for  you." 

He  was  good-natured,  like  most  people  con 
nected  with  the  stage;  and  Minnie,  with  a  touch 
of  rouge  on  her  haggard  cheeks,  was  very  piteous. 

She  rose.  "I'm  two  years  younger  than  'er," 
she  returned  drearily.  "Sorry  I  troubled  you." 

She  coughed  a  little  as  she  went  out  into  the 
November  fog.  For  weeks  she  had  tried  to  get  an 


248  VIOLETT 

engagement,  and  had  met  with  rebuffs  everywhere. 
This  man  Moss  had  been  her  last  hope. 

Her  husband  had  gone  on  tour  with  a  fairly 
good  company,  and  as  her  money  was  almost  at 
an  end,  she  did  not  know  what  she  was  to  do. 

The  irony  of  failing  for  the  lack  of  a  few  pounds 
of  flesh  did  not  appeal  to  her,  but  she  had  begun 
to  think  of  the  river.  Wrapping  her  thin  cloak 
close  around  her,  she  went  quickly  through  the 
crowded  streets  to  a  shop  where  she  had  a  letter 
box. 

For  weeks  she  had  come  every  day,  in  the  hope 
of  a  letter  from  Violett.  He  had  not  written, 
though  her  letters  to  him  had  grown  to  be  a  sort 
of  passion;  she  could  not  refrain  from  writing 
him,  and  did  so  almost  every  day. 

If  he  would  come  she  would  be  happy.  That 
was  all  that  she  knew.  She  was  too  ignorant  to 
reason  about  it ;  she  was  too  dull  to  realize  that  she 
was  only  dreaming  impossibilities.  He  loved  her, 
though  he  had  left  her,  and  she  loved  him.  There 
are  still  some  people  primitive  enough  to  live  al 
most  without  reasoning,  entirely  by  feeling.  Min 
nie  was  one  of  them.  Possessed  by  the  one  thing, 
her  love  for  the  boy  she  had  jilted,  all  other  things 
passed  her  by. 

Entering  the  dingy  butter  and  eggs  shop,  her 
pale  cheeks  glowed  suddenly  in  the  hope  of  finding 


VIOLETT  249 

a  letter.    He  would  have  touched  it,  his  hand  have 
written  the  very  address,   "Miss  Brown." 

But  there  was  no  letter,  and  a  burden  of  years 
seemed  to  settle  on  her  pinched  face  as  she  turned 
away. 


Ill 

DEAR  MIN,  —  It 's  no  good.  I  ain't  coming  back. 
Our  manager  wants  us  to  go  to  America,  and 
I  am  going. 

You  won't  care,  my  dear.  You  never  cared  a 
damn  for  me,  and  there  's  no  use  in  pretending  we 
are  n't  both  dead  sick  of  each  other. 

We  're  married  fast  enough,  worse  luck,  but 
short  of  marrying  some  one  else  we  can  be  pretty 
comfortable.  Maudie  and  I  get  on  pretty  well  to 
gether,  and  she  says  she  would  not  have  took  up 
with  me  if  she  didn't  know  that  you  won't  care. 
So  good-by,  and  good  luck  to  you.  You  can  get 
an  engagement,  or  that  chap  Adams  can  help  you. 

SAM. 

Minnie  read  the  letter  twice,  and  then  she  burst 
out  laughing.  So  Sam  and  Maud  were  off  together. 
She  was  glad  to  be  rid  of  her  husband.  He  had 
ill-treated  her,  and  she  hated  him  more  than  any 
one  in  the  world,  except  Maud.  Her  eyes  dark 
ened  with  anger.  She  would  like  to  get  her  nails 
into  that  little  beast's  eyes  —  going  off  with  mar 
ried  women's  husbands!  She  had  always  known 
that  Maud  was  a  nasty  little  devil.  Suddenly  she 
began  to  cry,  and  cried  until  she  fell  asleep. 


VIOLETT  251 

When  she  awoke  it  was  evening.  Dunn's  letter 
lay  on  the  floor  by  her.  She  picked  it  up  and  re 
read  it. 

Then  a  sudden  inspiration  came  to  her;  she 
would  send  it  to  Violett.  Taking  an  envelope  she 
addressed  it,  and  then  after  a  moment's  reflection 
wrote  below  her  husband's  sprawling  signature, 
"You  see  how  he  has  treated  me.  If  you  don't 
come  immediately  to  this  address,  you  shall  never 
see  me  again.  There  is  the  river  and  worse." 

When  she  had  posted  the  letter  she  crept  into 
bed  and  fell  asleep  thinking  of  what  she  should 
wear  Thursday  afternoon,  the  day  he  was  sure  to 
come. 

But  Violett  did  not  come. 

When  her  letter  reached  him  he  tied  it  around 
a  bit  of  stone,  and  standing  on  the  rocks  near  the 
Cradle,  dropped  it  into  the  sea,  unread. 

Then  he  sat  down  and  listened  to  the  song  of 
the  waves.  It  seemed  to  him  that  they  had  washed 
the  evil  out  of  her  poor  little  letters  and  that  the 
beauty  of  the  love  that  is  good  sounded  in  their 
soft  voices. 

Peace  had  come  back  to  him. 


IV 

AN  evening  in  February.  The  ends  of  the  great 
bridge  hidden  in  swathing  folds  of  fog,  the  great 
arch  hung  seemingly  in  mid-air.  Below,  dark  and 
greasy,  the  river  slid  from  oblivion  into  oblivion. 

A  fine  rain  dripped  from  the  fog,  and  through 
the  thick  atmosphere  the  strokes  of  a  great  clock 
fell  muffled  —  nine  soft,  booming  vibrations. 

A  girl  stood  just  beyond  the  blur  of  fog  that 
hid  the  end  of  the  bridge,  peering  down  at  the 
water.  Her  big  hat  hid  her  face,  but  her  tight 
green  cloth  jacket  showed  a  graceful,  rather  over- 
buxom  figure.  As  the  last  stroke  of  the  clock  sank 
hushedly  into  the  misty  atmosphere,  she  turned 
sharply.  Another  girl  stood  beside  her  grotesquely 
prim  in  the  costume  of  the  Salvation  Army. 

"Oh,  Gawd!  "  the  first  ejaculated,  with  a  giggle. 

"Put  a  guard  on  your  tongue!  And  come  to 
Jesus.  He  is  waiting  for  you.  Come  to  Him." 

The  droning,  mechanical  voice  from  the  depths 
of  the  bonnet  ceased  suddenly. 

"Aw,  chuck  it!   You  mike  me  tired." 

The  Salvation  Army  girl  drew  back  as  her  eyes 
fell  on  the  gayly  tinted  face  under  the  scraggy 
feathers. 

"Why,  Maud  Courtenay!  " 


VIOLETT  253 

"Min!"  There  was  a  short  pause,  and  then 
Maud  went  on  with  a  giggle,  "Are  you  down  on 
me  about  d'Orsay?  I  suppose  you  are." 

Minnie  shook  her  head.  "No.  I  ain't.  I  was  at 
first,  but  I  ain't  any  more.  Where  is  'e?" 

"Gawd  knows  —  and  'e  don't  tell  much.  I  left 
Sam  six  weeks  ago.  'E  drank  too  much  to  suit  my 
book." 

"But  —  were  n't  you  in  America?  " 

The  elder  girl  burst  into  a  loud  laugh.  "Not  us, 
my  love !  That  was  just  'is  little  gyme.  We  've 
been  living  in  a  palace  over  in  Rotherhithe  — 
Love's  young  dream.  But  you,  Min  —  why  are 
you  in  that  get-up?" 

"I  'm  saving  souls." 

"  Souls  be  blowed !  Where  's  —  Stevie  —  Vio- 
lett,  or  whatever  'is  flowery  nime  is?  " 

Minnie  hesitated.    "I  don't  know  where  'e  is." 

"You  don't  know  !  Why,  Sam  told  me  a  fairy- 
story  about  your  a-goin'  out  to  meet  'im  in  the 
park  mornings." 

"That  was  n't  a  fairy-story,  Maud.  It  was  true. 
Every  day  'e  used  to  come."  Minnie's  voice  was 
full  of  pride. 

"Well?" 

"And  then  —  he  went  away.  I  —  I  've  written 
—  once  —  to  —  the  place  he  used  to  live  in,  but  — 
he  'as  n't  answered." 


254  VIOLETT 

Both  girls  were  silent  for  a  minute,  and  then 
Maud,  with  a  sudden  upward  jerk  of  her  chin, 
laughed. 

"All  alike,  ain't  they?  Did  he  —  was  he  in 
love  with  you?  " 

"Yes." 

"Ever  kiss  you?" 

"Once." 

"Well,  then,  I  don't  see  —  oh,  well,  they're 
all  alike.  So  you  've  took  to  soul-snatching.  Like 
it?" 

Minnie  laughed  faintly.  "I  did  at  first,  but 
it 's  awful  dull.  Never  a  bit  of  fun." 

"  Fun  ys  all  right.  What  you  going  to  do  to 
night?" 

"Big  mass  meeting.    I  sing,  you  know." 

"Prayers  and  so  on?  " 

"Yes.  And  tambourines  and  drums.  It 's  real 
exciting  sometimes;  people  cry  and  faint.  What 
are  you  going  to  do?" 

Maud  laughed  grimly.  "Me?  Oh,  I  'm  on  my 
w'y  to  Marlborough  'ouse.  A  fam'ly  dinner  to 
meet  the  German  hemperor." 

Minnie  stared.  "  What  do  you  mean  ?  '  Ave  you 
got  an  engagement?  " 

"No.  I've  got  no  money  for  agents.  I'm  on 
the  loose.  I  am  —  going  to  the  Italia.  It 's  warm 
there,  and  light." 


VIOLETT  255 

Minnie  understood.  "An'  they  laugh  and  eat 
and  drink  —  all  my  bloomin'  pals  whine  and  talk 
rot.  I  'm  sick  of  it,  I  can  tell  you." 

Maud  bent  forward  suddenly  and  peered  under 
the  absurd  bonnet. 

"Like  my  'at,  Min?" 

"Yes.    It's  becoming  !" 

"Try  it  on." 

Hurriedly  the  two  girls  changed  hats  and  then 
half  shamefacedly  looked  at  each  other. 

"Put  it  more  to  the  left.  My,  them  plumes  is 
becoming! " 

"Pokes  ain't  so  bad  on  a  nice  round  face  like 
yours,  Maudie." 

The  green  jacket  hung  in  folds  from  Minnie's 
thin  shoulders,  but  her  long  cloak  hid  decorously 
all  of  Maud's  piteous  finery.  Minnie's  cheeks 
were  flushed. 

"I  am  so  sick  of  the  army! " 

"Cut  along  to  the  Italia.  You  look  sweet, 
dear." 

"So  do  you.  Oh,  rub  the  paint  off,  or  the 
captain  will  pounce  on  you." 

Agreeing  to  meet  at  the  same  spot  at  midnight, 
the  two  girls  separated,  each  one  going  her  way 
through  the  fine  rain,  her  heart  beating  with  ex 
citement. 


ROSE  SONNENTHAL  had  died  that  afternoon.  Vio- 
lett,  for  whom  she  had  sent,  stood  by  her  bed,  his 
eyes  dark  with  sorrow.  He  was  a  little  bewildered 
by  being  once  more  in  the  roar  of  the  great  city 
that  had  brought  him  misery,  and  even  the  dying 
woman's  confession  of  her  cruel  mistake  and  the 
Pole's  falsity  did  not  affect  him  keenly. 

The  main  fact,  that  she  was  dying,  blinded  his 
eyes  to  lesser  things. 

She  was  dying ;  going  away  from  the  few  to  the 
many,  from  the  lesser  to  the  greater.  That  she 
was  glad  to  go  did  not  surprise  him,  nor  did  the 
reason  for  her  sending  for  him. 

"Promise  me,"  she  had  said,  "that  you  will 
help  Felix." 

"I  will  help  him."  The  boy  did  not  ask  how  or 
when  he  was  to  help  the  man  who  must  hate  him 
for  the  blow  given  that  evening  when  the  world 
had  more  or  less  ended.  He  would  help  Sonnen- 
thal  in  any  way  at  any  time.  Then  Rose  told  him 
how  she  had  learned  of  Petrovsky's  villainy  months 
ago. 

"I  should  have  told  you,  Violett,  and  begged 
your  pardon,  but  —  it  was  too  late.  Felix  has  a 
new  pupil." 


VIOLETT  257 

"Who  is  he?" 

A  sudden  aching  longing  for  the  wonderful  in 
struction  he  had  lost  caught  him. 

Rose  laughed  faintly.  "It 's  a  —  girl.  She  is  a 
genius.  And  she  is  young,  and  pretty.  Of  course 
he  likes  her.  It  is  perfectly  natural."  Then  she 
laughed  again  at  the  innocent  vagueness  of  Vio- 
lett's  face. 

"He  loves  her,  you  see.  He  is  in  love  with  her. 
You  must  make  him  marry  her." 

"Make  him!" 

"Yes.  You  see,  Violett,  she  is  poor,  — a  cousin 
of  Petrovsky's.  He  —  Felix  —  might  not  marry 
her,  but  he  must.  If  he  lets  himself  lapse  into 
Bohemianism,  he  will  lose  all  his  music.  I  have 
bored  him,  but  I  have  kept  him  straight." 

Even  Violett  understood  this. 

"Yes.  He  must  keep  straight.  He  must  be 
good." 

The  dying  woman  nodded.  "Yes.  And  —  he 
likes  you,  Violett.  He  will  not  care  so  much  about 
your  music,  for  he  is  teaching  Marie,  but  —  you 
are  musical,  so  he  will  let  you  look  after  him. 
And  —  never  be  practical  with  him.  He  can't 
stand  practical  people.  Be  eccentric;  make  the 
commonest  things  seem  caprices.  I  have  learned, 
now  that  it  is  too  late." 

When  she  fainted  and  they  sent  him  away,  the 


258  VIOLETT 

boy  roamed  through  the  foggy  streets  for  hours, 
thinking. 

He  was  thinking,  not  of  his  promise  to  protect 
the  unprotectible,  but  of  death.  And  it  seemed 
to  him  like  a  cool,  soft  mist  that  hovered  over  each 
life,  ever  ready  to  settle  on  and  obliterate  it  with 
gentle  touch. 

It  seemed  to  him  like  a  slow-breaking  green 
wave  that  should  wash  away  the  writing  on  the 
sand. 

It  seemed  to  him  a  great  bird  on  whose  slow, 
steady  pinions  each  mortal  shall  some  day  be  borne 
into  the  sunset  glow  with  unblinded  eyes. 


VI 


WHEN  he  met  Minnie,  as  it  was  written,  at  the 
corner  near  the  bridge,  just  as  the  girl,  frightened 
by  her  evening  at  the  music  hall,  had  changed 
back  into  the  monotonous  safety  of  her  grotesque 
bonnet  and  cloak,  he  was  not  surprised. 

"Minnie!" 

"Violett!" 

That  was  all,  but  it  is  all-sufficient.  Where 
were  the  streets  and  the  houses  ?  Where  were  the 
encroaching  fog  and  the  misty  lights?  Where 
were  the  rest  of  the  world's  inhabitants?  Gone, 
all  of  them.  And  the  universe  was  a  spark  of  fire 
just  large  enough  for  two. 

A  few  minutes  later  things  began  to  come  back, 
—  a  bit  of  the  bridge,  whither  they  had  gone ;  a 
big  electric  light;  a  patch  of  shining  river;  one  or 
two  people. 

And  then  Violett  dropped  Minnie's  hand,  and 
a  slow  blush  crept  up  his  face. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  sharply. 

"I  am  ashamed." 

In  matters  of  love  the  scruples  should  be  the 
woman's. 

Minnie  tossed  her  head.  "If  you  are  ashamed, 
then  you  had  better  go." 


260  VIOLETT 

"Where  shall  I  go?" 

His  old  passivity,  his  uncowardly  lack  of  resist 
ance  to  greater  forces,  sounded  distinctly  in  his 
voice. 

"I  —  I  mean  if  you  are  ashamed.  But  what  are 
you  ashamed  of?" 

"Because  I  love  you,  and  because  you  love  me." 

She  had  taken  off  her  hideous  bonnet,  and  now 
gave  her  neglected  head  another  toss. 

"  'Ow  do  you  know  I  love  you,  Mr.  Vi'lett 
Maule?  If  I  'ad,  I  'd  'ave  married  you,  wouldn't 
I?" 

But  coquetry  was  a  weapon  powerless  against 
the  boy.  He  looked  at  her  earnestly  for  a  mo 
ment. 

"Minnie,  where  is  your  mother?" 

"Ma?  Oh,  she  's  all  right.  She  lives  in  Liver 
pool  with  'er  brother,  since  pa  died." 

"Where  is  Mr.  d'Orsay?" 

"Mr.  d'Orsay  is  in  Eotherhithe.  'E  went  off 
with  Maud  Courtenay.  You,"  she  continued,  with 
a  sudden  access  of  bitterness,  "you  need  n't  'ave 
been  so  careful  of  'is  feelings." 

The  big  clock  struck  one  as  Violett,  turning, 
made  his  declaration  of  faith. 

"I  wasn't,  Minnie.  I  did  not  care  about  his 
feelings ;  it  was  —  ours." 

She  paused  for  a  moment,  irritated  by  the  pre- 


VIOLETT  261 

sence  of  something  that  she  did  not  understand. 
Then  she  said  suddenly,  — 

"I  nearly  jumped  into  the  river  to-night.  I  am 
tired  of  life." 

"So  am  I." 

Again  the  vast  difference  between  his  feelings 
and  hers  half  angered  her. 

"Let 's  jump  in,"  she  suggested. 

Violett  leaned  over  the  stone  coping  of  the  bridge 
and  gazed  at  the  water. 

"No,"  he  said  quietly;   "it 's  too  dirty." 

"You  don't  think  it 's  wrong,  then?  " 

And  knowing  great  passages  of  the  Bible  by 
heart  as  he  did,  having  been  brought  up  by  the 
simply  pious  Agnes,  having  lived  in  daily  com 
munion  with  the  greatest  of  nature's  voices,  the 
sea,  —  being  what  he  was,  a  pure-hearted  grown 
child,  he  answered  from  the  depths  of  his  heart, 
"JVb." 

He  could  see  no  wrong  in  ending  his  life,  if 
that  life  grew  to  be  unbearable.  And  the  thought 
of  the  smooth,  cool  water,  so  familiar  to  him  all 
his  days,  was  pleasant. 

But  he  was  not  hysterical. 

"No.    Why  should  we?" 

Ready  tears  sprang  to  her  eyes. 

"You  do  not  love  me;  you  are  a  heartless 
thing!" 


262  VIOLETT 

He  paled  a  little. 

"  If  you  loved  me  —  as  I  do  you  —  you  would 
take  me  away  —  somewhere  —  Violett." 

Her  hand  seemed  to  burn  his  arm. 

"Minnie,"  he  stammered  with  stiff  lips,  "I  — 
we  mustn't  think  of  that." 

"Violett  —  he  'as  left  me,  and  I  have  no  money 
—  I  am  —  hungry  !  " 

It  was  a  touch  prompted  by  her  dramatic  in 
stinct,  and  it  quivered  through  him  like  an  electric 
shock. 

"Hungry!" 

"Yes.  And  —  so  lonely!  And  people  —  say 
things  to  me.  Violett,  I  —  I  love  you." 

The  fog  had  fallen  close  around  them,  and  in 
its  folds  she  leaned  heavily  against  him.  He  stood 
like  a  stone  pillar. 

The  great  clock  struck  again. 

And  it  was  months  since  he  had  seen  her;  and 
he  had  what  is  called  the  artistic  temperament. 

Minnie's  cold  little  hands  stealing  up  his  sleeves 
were  like  the  hands  of  the  Fog-Spirit. 

"Fiofott/" 

The  hands  were  about  his  neck  now,  and  gently 
pulling  his  head  down. 

The  "  Song  of  the  Sea  "  pulsed  suddenly  in  his 
ears;  he  saw  the  sunny  sea,  the  whirl  of  white 
birds  against  the  blue  water. 


VIOLETT  263 

His  eyes  closed  as  the  girl's  cheek  touched  his. 
"VioUU/" 

With  a  little  cry  he  broke  away  and  rushed  into 
the  gray  darkness. 


PART  V 


"MONSIEUR  Violette,  attention!" 

Marie  Varsky,  at  the  far  end  of  the  dusky  room, 
swept  a  sudden  curtsy,  laughing  out  of  the  billow 
of  her  creamy  skirts  with  merry  eyes. 

"Zat,"  she  said,  carefully  exaggerating  her 
charming  accent,  "  is  —  ze  poetry  of  motion.  Now 
play  me  somesing  of  a  wildness !  " 

It  was  a  June  evening,  and  the  lamps  not  yet 
being  brought  in,  the  long  room,  with  its  polished 
floor,  was  almost  dark,  save  for  the  splashes  of 
yellow  that  came  in  from  the  electric  lights  on  the 
pier,  and  the  faint  sunset  glow  from  the  opposite 
windows. 

Violett,  at  the  piano,  played  something  with  ab 
sent-minded  fingers. 

The  girl,  poised  to  dance,  laughed. 

"  Ah  la,  la,  wake  up,  boy !  Who  could  dance  to 
such  a  music  !  What  is  it,  then,  my  hair?  " 

Her  hair,  a  wonderful  red-gold  fleece,  hung  loose, 
almost  to  her  feet;  and  as  she  danced,  she  wove  it 
in  and  out,  twisting  it  around  her  supple  arms, 
smiling  through  its  strands,  waving  it  like  a 
banner. 

"Your  hair?   No.    I  was  thinking." 

A  pout  came  to  her  pale,  flat  lips. 


268  VIOLETT 

"Thinking!  It  is  to  lose  time,  to  think,  boy. 
Faire,  jamais  penser,  that  is  my  motto.  And 
yours  is  Penser,  jamais  faire." 

He  was  not  sufficiently  interested  to  ask  her 
to  translate.  He  was  trying  to  decide  how  to  tell 
her  the  result  of  his  last  talk  with  Sonnenthal. 

Three  months  had  passed  since  Kose's  death, 
and  for  over  six  weeks  the  three,  chaperoned  by  a 
very  sleepy  aunt  of  Marie's,  had  been  living  at 
Littlebay. 

Violett  had  been  taken  because  Rose  Sonnen 
thal' s  last  request  to  her  husband  had  been  to  that 
effect.  And  the  Master,  in  spite  of  his  overwhelm 
ing  love  for  the  young  Pole,  was  forced  by  his  artis 
tic  side  to  take  up  his  old  interest  for  the  boy  where 
he  had  dropped  it. 

Marie  Varski  was  a  musical  freak;  Violett  was 
a  genius.  The  girl,  trained  like  a  race-horse  from 
her  earliest  childhood,  played  amazingly;  Violett 
played  hardly  at  all;  Sonnenthal  was  in  love  with 
the  girl ;  the  boy  he  had  first  disliked,  then  loved 
for  his  talent,  and  then  brought  with  him  as  a  sort 
of  post  mortem  favor  to  his  wife. 

Yet  Marie's  musical  gymnastics  bored  him  un 
utterably,  and  Violett' s  half -inarticulate  efforts  at 
composition  filled  the  best  of  him  with  delight. 

Madame  Ranoffsky,  the  sleepy  aunt,  was  a 
nullity;  Marie,  with  her  plain  white  face  and  won- 


VIOLETT  269 

derful  hair,  the  greatest  torment  ever  sent  to  a 
middle-aged  viveur  to  love,  for  his  sins. 

And  Violett,  half  dazed  between  the  possession 
of  a  piano  and  the  responsibilities  of  match-mak 
ing,  lived  in  a  sort  of  shifting  dream. 

"Marie!  "  The  young  girl,  who  had  plaited  her 
hair  into  a  long  tail  and  was  pretending  to  skip 
rope  with  it,  turned  quickly. 

"Marie,  the  Master  is  going  to  marry  you." 

She  burst  out  laughing. 

"Tiens!    Is  he,  indeed?" 

"  Yes.    Are  n't  you  glad  ?  " 

"Glad?  Oh,  boy,  boy!  Why  should  I  marry? 
I  know  men  too  well." 

"All  men  are  not  alike." 

"No.    But  all  husbands  are." 

She  had  loosened  her  hair  again,  and,  coming 
up  behind  him,  twisted  a  long  strand  around  his 
neck. 

"I  will  not  marry  him." 

"But  he  will  be  unhappy  without  you." 

"I  am  here!" 

"But  you  love  him." 

She  flushed  and  scampered  back  into  the  gloom. 

"Do  I?   How  know  you,  oh,  boy?" 

"I  know.    Don't  you?" 

"You  know.    Yet  —  you  ask." 

"Please  tell  me." 


270  VIOLETT 

"Eh  bien.  Well,  then  — yes.  I  love  him. 
Who  could  help  it?" 

He  started  at  the  fierceness  in  her  voice. 

"Then  —  you  will  marry  him." 

She  came  back  and  stood  by  him. 

"No.  I  love  him  now.  I  should  as  a  husband 
hate  him.  I  knew —  her." 

It  was  too  great  a  puzzle  for  the  boy.  His  na 
ture  was  too  passive  to  be  able  to  cope  with  prob 
lems  like  this.  He  rose. 

"I  am  going  out  now,  Marie.  I  am  tired.  But 
you  must  marry  him." 

She  watched  him  with  wonder  in  her  eyes  as  he 
crossed  the  little  garden  and  went  down  to  the 
edge  of  the  waves. 


II 

"ViOLETr!"  Sonnenthal  laid  his  hand  on  the 
boy's  arm.  "She  has  refused  me."  Wondering 
amusement,  mixed  with  triumph,  was  in  the  Mas 
ter's  eyes  and  voice.  "She  will  not  marry  me." 

"I  know.    She  does  not  like  husbands." 

"So  —  poor  Rose  and  you  have  failed.  Now  tell 
me  —  why  did  you  try?  What  difference  did  it 
make  to  you?  " 

"She  wanted  you  to  marry  her." 

"She  didn't  like  Marie,  poor  thing." 

Sonnenthal  sent  a  flat  stone  skimming  over  the 
quiet  water,  and  watched  it  thoughtfully. 

"I'm  not  blaming  her  for  not  liking  Marie, 
God  knows;  but  there  is  the  fact,  and  I  don't 
understand  her  trying  to  help  the  girl." 

Violett  turned.  "It  wasn't  on  her  account,"  he 
answered.  "It  was  on  yours." 

"Mine?   My  account?" 

"Yes.  She  thought  that  it  would  be  bad  for 
your  music  if  you  —  did  anything  wrong." 

The  sound  of  the  man's  jarring  laugh  broke  the 
evening  quiet. 

"  If  I  did  anything  wrong !  I !  Why,  my  dear 
boy,  I  never  did  anything  right  in  my  life !  She 
knew  that.  And  my  music  hasn't  suffered.  Do 


272  VIOLETT 

you  think  it  has?  "  he  added  sharply,  as  Violett 
did  not  speak. 

"I  think  —  that  everything  is  better  if  it  is 
done  by  a  good  person." 

"You  are  a  confounded  prig,  my  dear.  What 
about  Chopin?  Was  he  a  good  person?  You  re 
member  his  '  Life  '  that  I  gave  you?  " 

"He  was  not  good." 

"  Well  —  and  his  music  ?  " 

Violett  hesitated. 

"It  is  beautiful  music,  but  it  is  not  good.  It 
reminds  me  "-  But  he  could  not  say  that  it  re 
called  to  him  the  scene  in  the  park  that  morning 
when  he  had  kissed  Minnie. 

"It  is  not  good,"  he  concluded,  with  an  air  of 
finality. 

But  Sonnenthal  was  in  too  good  a  humor  to  be 
annoyed. 

"Well,  you  have  done  your  best,  my  dear  boy, 
and  failed.  Now  listen.  I  am  going  to  Normandy 
the  day  after  to-morrow.  Where  will  you  go? " 

"I  shall  go  home." 

"Very  well.  I  am  sending  you  my  wife's  piano. 
Put  newspapers  inside  it,  over  the  strings,  every 
night,  to  keep  out  the  damp." 

Then  he  went  back  to  the  house,  and  Violett  sat 
down  by  the  waves  to  try  to  realize  his  great  hap 
piness.  He  had  done  his  best.  He  had  tried  to 


VIOLETT  273 

make  Sonnenthal  marry  Marie;  that  he  had  ut 
terly  failed  did  not  in  the  least  disturb  him. 

His  world  was  in  tune.  In  a  minor  key  his  life 
melody  was  set,  but  it  was  harmonically  perfect, 
and  the  sea  at  his  feet  loved  him. 

The  tragedy  of  his  wasted  genius  did  not  appeal 
to  him;  he  was  too  old  to  learn  to  be  a  great 
pianist,  and  Sonnenthal,  with  a  kindly  gift,  had 
now  definitely  turned  his  back  on  him.  He  would 
never  learn  to  express  to  others  the  great  ideas 
that  came  to  him,  but  these  things  brought  no 
twinge  of  self-pity  to  his  simple  heart.  He  had 
never  known  ambition,  and  hence  was  spared  the 
bitterest  pain  in  the  world,  —  that  of  feeling  his 
talent  wasted  without  recognition.  He  would  go 
back  to  the  island ;  to  the  peace  that  he  loved ;  to 
old  Agnes  who  loved  him;  to  the  rocks  and  the 
sand  and  the  sea ;  to  his  few  books ;  to  his  inno 
cent  memories  of  Minnie;  and  added  to  these  dear 
things,  he  would  have  a  piano. 

He  remembered  the  Adamses ;  the  caress  of  wet 
sand  to  bare  feet;  Bob  Venn  and  his  boat;  the 
quiet  afternoons  in  the  old  kitchen,  with  the  gen 
tle  ticking  of  the  clock  and  the  square  of  sunlight 
on  the  floor. 

He  would  put  the  piano  in  the  little  parlor,  and 
there  where  his  mother  had  loved  to  sit,  he  would 
play. 


Ill 

WITH  a  sort  of  superstition  about  leaving  the  sea 
even  for  a  time,  on  his  way  to  what  seemed  more 
the  sea  than  any  other  bit  of  it,  Violett  took  a  boat 
from  Littlebay  to  Eastborough,  whence  Bob  Venn 
was  to  take  him  home  in  the  old  sailboat. 

The  Queen  Anne,  full  of  noisy  excursionists, 
reached  Eastborough  at  about  six  in  the  evening, 
and  Bob  not  being  due  until  the  following  morn 
ing,  the  boy  put  up  at  an  inn,  had  some  sup 
per,  and  then  went  out  for  a  walk.  The  moon 
had  come  up,  and  the  wide  water,  silvered  like 
a  mirror,  stretched  wonderfully  quiet  under  his 
eyes. 

The  beach  was  almost  deserted  to  the  north  of 
the  town,  for  a  fair  was  being  held  in  the  town. 
Violett  strolled  along,  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
his  eyes  quietly  alert.  He  saw  much  more  in  the 
simple  scene  than  would  have  an  ordinary  ob 
server.  He  noted  the  tiny  footprints  of  water-fowl 
on  the  firm  sand,  a  faint  dark  stain  against  the 
horizon  that  meant  a  France-bound  steamer;  not 
a  bit  of  seaweed  escaped  him ;  not  a  pale  star  be 
yond  the  moonlight. 

And  the  "Song  of  the  Sea,"  softer,  less  decided 
than  of  old,  but  tenderer  and  more  consoling,  with- 


VIOLETT  275 

out  lack  of  rhythm,  told  him  a  wonderful  story  of 
future  happiness. 

Minnie  had  disappeared  from  his  thoughts ;  her 
great  rival,  Harmony,  had  vanquished  her.  The 
only  Minnie  left  was  a  little  child,  his  thoughts 
of  whom,  interwoven  with  the  songs  of  Nature, 
enhanced  and  did  not  jar  on  the  beauties  of  its 
music. 

A  small  boat  came  around  a  spit  of  sand  ahead. 
Black,  flat  against  the  gleaming  water,  its  two  oc 
cupants  stood  out  like  silhouettes.  Violett  watched 
them. 

Suddenly  the  little  craft  began  to  rock  rapidly. 
It  was  a  foolhardy  trick.  Then  came  a  short 
scream,  and  the  woman,  reaching  frantically  for 
an  unshipped  oar,  nearly  went  headlong  into  the 
water.  A  peal  of  foolish  laughter  followed,  and 
the  boat  rocked  again. 

The  oar,  a  black  streak  on  the  water,  was  now 
out  of  reach.  They  could  not  row  with  two;  what 
can  they  do  with  one? 

Violett  took  off  his  boots  and  his  coat,  and  wad 
ing  in  up  to  his  waist,  struck  out  for  the  oar. 

He  caught  it  without  difficulty,  and  then  swim 
ming  after  the  boat  called  that  he  was  bringing 
the  oar. 

"  Your  oar  is  safe  —  I  'm  coming  —  but  stop 
rocking  the  boat." 


276  VIOLETT 

As  he  put  his  hand  on  the  gunwale  the  woman 
turned  and  looked  down  into  his  wet  face. 

It  was  Minnie. 

And  the  second  that  they  gazed  into  each  other's 
eyes  was  an  eternity. 

"Violett!" 

"Minnie!" 

Their  lips  moved,  but  only  their  eyes  uttered  the 
words. 

The  foolish  laugh  startled  them. 

"Get  in  —  come  'long,  Adams.  We're  old 
friends, — bygones  be  bygones."  D'Orsay  held 
out  his  hand. 

"I  —  have  brought  your  oar." 

"Thanks.  Better  get  in  and  use  it  —  I'm 
tired." 

"Yes,  Violett  —  I  'm  afraid,"  added  Minnie. 
" You  see" - 

Violett  got  into  the  boat  and  took  the  oars. 

"You  ought  not  to  be  out  alone;  there  are  rocks 
here;  shall  I  take  you  to  Eastborough ? " 

"No,  no;  we  are  at  Axby,  over  there.  He 
lms  an  engagement  there." 

D'Orsay,  who  had  climbed  to  the  stern  and  sat 
by  his  wife,  nodded.  "Damn  bad  pay;  rotten  en 
gagement;  what  you  been  doing,  you  Lorathio  — 
Lothario  " 

"Sam!  please"  — 


VIOLETT  277 

Minnie  was  very  thin,  and  Violett  saw  with 
fierce  resentment  that  she  was  afraid  of  her  hus 
band. 

"  '  Sam !  please  '  -  -Min,  my  dearest,  my  d-ducky 
—  look  at  your  old  adorer.  Pretty  wet,  is  n't  'e?  " 

Violett  rowed  steadily,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  sky 
line  beyond  the  two  heads. 

"I  s'pose,"  d'Orsay  went  on,  suddenly  dropping 
his  facetious  tone  and  speaking  half  threateningly, 
"I  —  you  thought  Min  was  in  love  with  you,  Mr. 
Whatshername ?  Well,  she  wasn't,  you  see.  'Ere 
we  are,  'aving  our  second  'oneymoon  at  the  sea 
shore  like  two  damned  thingummies  —  love-birds." 

Minnie's  lips  shook  and  her  eyes  glistened  with 
tears.  Violett  did  not  speak,  even  when  d'Orsay 
offered  him  some  brandy  and  then  took  a  long 
pull  at  the  flask  himself. 

The  moon  smiled  as  she  had  smiled  half  an 
hour  before,  but  where  was  the  beauty  of  the 
world  ?  Where  was  the  peace  that  had  been  then  ? 
Where  was  the  exquisite  harmony? 

Beyond  the  spit  of  sand,  back  about  a  mile,  the 
lights  of  a  small  town  glimmered  amid  the  dark 
ness  of  trees.  The  jetty  stretching  out  towards  the 
boat  showed  the  course  to  be  taken. 

Violett  rowed  steadily.  At  length  d'Orsay 
slipped  from  his  seat  into  the  bottom  of  the  boat. 

"He  is  asleep,"  said  Minnie. 


IV 

THEIR  eyes  met,  and  the  rhythmical  beat  of  the 
oars  ceased. 

"You  are  ill,  Minnie." 

She  laughed,  an  odd  little  laugh,  sad,  yet  with 
an  undercurrent  of  satisfied  pride  in  it. 

"Yes.    A  decline,  I  think." 

"What  is  that?" 

"You  'aven't  anything  especial,  but  you  just 
die.  I  am  glad  I  'm  going  to  die,  Violett." 

"  What  does  —  the  doctor  say?  " 

"A  warm  winter,  good  food  an'  wine,  and  — 
'appiness.    Me'appy!" 

The  circles  that  he  had  always  thought  beautiful 
had  deepened  about  her  eyes ;  her  lips  were  hardly 
redder  than  her  white  cheeks ;  her  shoulders  showed 
pointed  under  her  pink  blouse. 

"You  —  mustn't  die,  Min." 

He  hardly  knew  his  own  voice. 

"Yes.  You  are  too  good,  Violett.  If  you  loved 
me  I  could  live,  but  you  don't." 

His  mute  protestation  brought  a  little  color  to 
her  face. 

"Well  then,  — you  see  what  'e  is.  I  —  it's  that 
that 's  killing  me.  He  made  me  come  down  'ere 
just  to  show  that  'e  was  my  master,  but  'e  'ates  me. 
Bah!" 


VIOLETT  279 

Gathering  her  skirts  closer,  she  shrank  away 
from  the  drunken  man  who  was  her  master.  A 
boat  load  of  men  dressed  as  nigger  minstrels  passed 
to  their  left ;  a  sound  of  music  floated  out  from  the 
receding  town ;  a  scrap  of  cloud  fluttered  across  the 
moon's  face.  Rising,  the  young  woman  stepped 
carefully  past  her  husband,  and  kneeling  in  front 
of  the  boy  laid  her  hands  on  his  shoulders. 

"Violett,  you  are  too  good  for  me,  I  know,  but 
—  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer.  I  tried  after  you 
went  away,  that  night  in  London.  I  went  back 
and  forgave  him.  It  was  all  for  you.  I  know 
1  'm  bad  to  want  you  to  take  me,  but  —  I  love 
you,  and  you  could  make  me  good." 

His  misery  had  carved  such  strange  lines  in  his 
white  face  that  it  was  like  that  of  a  stranger. 

"Dear — kiss  me." 

The  lights  receded  farther  and  farther;  and  the 
two  waking  people  in  the  boat  noticed  it  no  more 
than  did  the  sleeper.  They  were  adrift. 


THREE  minutes  after  they  had  passed  the  boat 
filled  with  nigger  minstrels,  their  boat  struck  the 
rock  for  which  it  was  bound. 

There  was  a  crash,  a  cry,  and  the  little  craft, 
pinned  by  a  sharp  point  of  the  rock,  settled  slowly. 

Minnie,  shrieking,  clung  to  Violett,  until  he 
pushed  her  roughly  aside  and  began  to  bail  with 
his  hands,  as  he  called  to  the  men  in  the  other 
boat,  who  had  put  about  and  were  approaching. 

"Come  in  to  the  left,  there  !  Look  out  for  the 
rock  !  You  can't  see  it  !  Be  quiet,  Minnie,  you  are 
perfectly  safe." 

The  moonlight  fell  on  the  strange  scene,  —  the 
blackened  faces  and  gaudy  costumes  of  the  res 
cuers;  on  the  hysterical  woman  and  the  quietly 
working  boy  ;  on  the  sleeper  in  the  stern. 

"  We  can't  come  in  any  farther  !  Can't  you  swim 
out?  Lucky  you  're  only  two.  We  're  full  now  !  " 

Violett  turned  and  glanced  sharply  at  the  other 
boat.  It  was  true,  she  was  already  overloaded. 

"There  are  three  of  us  —  only  three,"  Minnie 
called,  wringing  her  hands  nervously. 

The  men  paused  for  a  minute,  talking  in  an 
undertone. 

"We  can't  help  you   unless  you  promise  that 


VIOLETT  281 

you  won't  all  get  in.  Sorry,  but  we  oughtn't  to 
take  any  of  you.  We  've  got  a  leak,  too.  Now 
then  ?  " 

The  speaker  faced  them,  his  painted  lips  gleam 
ing  scarlet. 

"We  '11  take  the  woman  and  one  of  the  men  — 
where  is  the  other?  " 

Minnie    pointed    to    her  husband.     "He's  — 
asleep." 

"Asleep!" 

The  spokesman  cleared  his  throat.   "  Come  along, 
then.    You  help  her  out  to  us.    Can  you  swim  ?  " 
Violett  laughed.    "Yes,  I  can  swim." 

"  If  you  try  to  overload  us  we  '11  push  you  into 
the  water.  Ready?" 

The  grim  contrast  between  the  man's  looks  and 
his  words  held  Violett' s  attention  for  a  second. 

Then  he  nodded.  "All  right.  We  won't  over 
load  you.  Come,  Minnie." 

She  turned  to  him  and  he  took  her  hand. 

"Good-by,  Min." 

With  a  wild  scream  she  flung  herself  into  his 
arms.  "No,  no!  No,  no!  No,  no!  You  are 
coming!  He  must  stay!  He  is  asleep;  he  won't 
know!  Come,  come  quickly  or  —  he  might  wake 
up!" 

"Min,  we  have  no  time  to  lose;  the  boat  will 
go  to  pieces  in  a  minute.  Good-by." 


282  VIOLETT 

"You  —  make  him  come  !  I  won't  let  him  be 
drowned.  I  tell  you  I  won't  let  him  be  drowned  ! 
That  man  is  a  devil ;  I  hate  him  !  —  no,  no,  no, 

710 /" 

Violett  caught  her  by  the  shoulders.  "Min, 
don't  you  see  —  I  must.  He  let  me  row;  he 
trusted  me;  and  —  he  is  asleep.  Hush!  " 

The  men  in  the  other  boat,  with  their  black 
faces,  hideous  red  lips,  and  grotesque  woolly  wigs, 
were  motionless  with  excitement. 

Violett  kissed  Minnie,  and  then,  slipping  care 
fully  into  the  quiet  water,  swam  with  her  to  the 
other  boat.  Two  of  the  men  helped  her  over  the 
gunwale,  and  she  sat  crouched  in  the  stern  while 
he  went  back. 

"One  of  you  will  have  to  help.  He  is  dead 
drunk." 

D'Orsay,  snoring  loudly,  was  with  great  diffi 
culty  hoisted  into  the  boat,  and  then  Violett  laid 
his  hands  on  the  gunwale,  which  was  perilously 
near  the  water. 

"Minnie,  good-by." 

"Cawn't  you  hold  pn  till  we  get  back  or  send 
some  one?  It's  only  about  three  miles."  The 
speaker's  voice  broke. 

"No.  I  can't  swim  long  —  get  cramp;  and  the 
boat  will  break  up  in  ten  minutes." 

His  white  young  face  was  very  beautiful. 


VIOLETT  283 

"  Minnie,  write  to  Agnes,  will  you  ?  And  —  you 
do  love  me,  even  though  my  father  was  hanged?  " 

Minnie  stared  vacantly  at  him.  "Stevie  —  dear 
Stevie,"  she  murmured. 

One  of  the  men  burst  into  loud  sobs. 

Violett  reached  for  Minnie's  hand,  kissed  it,  and 
then  held  his  out  to  the  man  nearest  him. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  "row  slowly." 

"God  bless  you  —  mate,"  was  the  answer. 

Then,  very  slowly,  the  dangerously  laden  boat 
withdrew,  and  Violett  swam  back  to  the  little 
wreck. 


VI 

HE  looked  about  him.  It  was  more  than  three  miles 
to  the  land,  and  he  had  never  been  able  to  swim 
long  distances.  Cramp  was  horrible  suffering,  and 
this,  sitting  in  the  doomed  boat,  very  peaceful. 

Death  was  coming,  and  he  could  wait.  Then, 
too,  it  was  better  —  better  for  Minnie  and  better 
for  him. 

The  sound  of  the  quiet  waves  was  very  beautiful, 

—  it  was  harmony.    His  death  was  harmony,  as 
the  last  few  minutes  before  the  boat  struck  had 
been  rapturous  discord. 

Minnie ! 

The  one  perfectly  beautiful  and  perfect  person 
in  the  world.  Of  course  she  had  not  been  able  to 
marry  him,  whose  father  — 

His  father  was  somewhere.    Where? 

Agnes  would  cry  —  poor  blind  tears.  Bob 
Venn's  mother  lay  in  the  sea  too.  And  when 
storms  groaned  and  threatened,  when  sweet  moon 
light  gleamed  on  the  waves,  when  the  dawn-quiet 
brooded,  there  would  be  no  discord. 

He,  Violett  Maule,  in  spite  of  his  father's  sin, 
had  not  brought  discord  into  the  eternal  harmony. 

The  Adamses  were  swimming  in  the  moonlight, 

—  Louisa  and  Henry  and  the  baby  and  Stephen,  — 


VIOLETT  286 

no,  he  was  Stevie.  The  se&ora  called  him  Stevie. 
Bayne  knew.  He  had  always  known,  and  he  did 
not  mind.  Minnie  did  not  mind. 

When  the  boat  broke  up  Violett  found  the  wa 
ter  warm  and  pleasant  after  the  coolness  of  the 
night  air  through  his  wet  clothes.  And  the  sound 
of  ii  was  beautiful.  He  was  of  it  now,  —  of  the 
water  he  loved,  and  of  the  "  Song  of  the  Sea."  He 
was  a  note  in  the  song,  —  a  sad  gray  note,  but  he 
belonged  to  it.  .  .  . 

There  was,  of  course,  a  short  involuntary  strug 
gle,  and  then  after  it  the  water  was  quiet  again 
in  the  moonlight. 


THE    END 


Electrotyped  and  printed  by  H.  O.  Houghion  A^  C». 
Cambridge,    Mass.,  U.  S.  A  . 


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